


Sherlock, P.I.

by Callie4180



Category: Magnum P.I. (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Creepy Moriarty, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Past Relationship(s), References to Drugs, Sherlock/Magnum PI fusion, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:12:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 83,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4744208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/pseuds/Callie4180
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Fall TV Sherlock fusion project. Sherlock, P.I. is an American television show that follows the exciting adventures of genius private investigator Sherlock Homes and his friends as they live their lives on the beautiful island of Oahu in Hawaii. Sherlock solves crimes as he wrestles with the ghosts and demons of his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PILOT: Only Idiots Eat the Snow in Hawaii (Part 1 of 2)

**Author's Note:**

> For the Sherlock Fall TV fusion project. I watched a lot of Magnum PI, back in the day, and I guess it stuck. I've tried to incorporate the settings and some of the story elements of MPI, but I think the story stands on its own.
> 
>  
> 
> *Edited for typos 1/30/2016. This story is now complete.*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s funny the things a grown man will do for a living. Today, for example, I’m breaking into this beautiful estate. It’s quite all right; I live here. Rather comfortably, I might add. I’m a consulting private investigator, the only one in the world, and one of my many tasks is monitoring security for Robin Masters, the owner of this lovely, if vastly overstated, home._
> 
>  
> 
> Meet Sherlock Holmes, P.I.

It’s late afternoon in Hawaii, and we stand on a private beach, looking through a chain link fence at a luxurious home set off by a thick green lawn. Twilight is beginning to shimmer in the air, and we hear the melodic notes of songbirds as they begin to settle in for the warm evening. There’s a slow, cautious shadow in motion against the house, moving through the bushes of the immaculate landscaping.

**-Voiceover (a deep, rich baritone with a smooth British accent)-  
It’s funny the things a grown man will do for a living. Today, for example, I’m breaking into this beautiful estate. It’s quite all right; I live here. Rather comfortably, I might add. I’m a consulting private investigator, the only one in the world, and one of my many tasks is monitoring security for Robin Masters, the owner of this lovely, if vastly overstated, home. It’s tedious, really, but it keeps me in coin and allows me ample time to pursue one of life’s great pleasures…**

A tall, patrician man with impeccable posture and a haughty expression steps out onto the upstairs balcony. He is immaculately dressed in an off white linen suit, perfectly cut and perfectly pressed, red pocket square neatly in place. There is a gleam off of his fawn colored wingtips. His auburn hair does not move in the gentle evening breeze. He walks with a measured pace halfway down the length of the balcony, until he stops and with a frown, leans straight-armed against the railing and stares unseeingly out at the ocean.

**-Voiceover continues-  
…tormenting my brother, Mycroft. He’s in charge of this place. He keeps the estate running for Robin, manages his accounts, and serves in his stead on local boards and the like. In addition, if my observations are correct (and I assure you, they are), he as much as runs the city of Waikiki, if not the entire island of Oahu, both politically and socially. He is brilliant, ruthless, impeccably mannered, and probably the most dangerous man you’d ever meet…**

Below the balcony, the shadow lengthens vertically, and we can see that it is another tall man, slinking against the wall, underneath the balcony toward the faintly glowing French doors set into the far corner of the building. The man has thick curly black hair and a proud profile. He is dressed in black pants and a dark, well-fitted T-shirt, and is carrying a small duffle bag.

**-Voiceover-  
…and he is very much my problem right now.**

Mycroft straightens, checks his watch, considers his hands on the railing for a moment, and then turns to go back indoors. He moves deliberately, his thoughts still apparently elsewhere. The man below him reaches the doors unseen, and pulls a roll of tools from the bag. He selects a pick, and starts to work at the lock.

**-Voiceover-  
Robin sent me a private message, asking me to run a series of drills on the security of the estate, in preparation for a visit from some important dignitaries, blah blah blah, no one I know or care about. Apparently he’s been concerned that the regular security has become a bit lax, and well, since estate management is Mycroft’s domain, and Mycroft’s constant meddling is the major trial of my life, I grabbed at the chance to return the favor, for pay, with alacrity.**

Mycroft steps through the door upstairs, and it closes gently behind him. Lights come on, and through thick, frosted decorative windows, we see him start to descend a set of stairs. Meanwhile, the man downstairs quietly eases the door he’s been working on open. He reaches into his duffle bag again, this time pulling out what appears to be a rubber chicken. He disappears through the doorway for several seconds, and then reemerges, carrying only a white Panama hat. He quietly closes the door behind him, and starts sneaking away on the tips of his soft-soled shoes. He is twenty feet away from the door when the lights inside and out blaze on. Behind him a great shout goes up:

“Oh, bloody hell! SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock immediately breaks into a full run, clutching the hat, and giggling madly, sprints as quickly as possible away from the house and toward the driveway that wraps around the estate. Without breaking stride, he jumps over the door and into the seat of a red Ferrari 308 GTS convertible. He jams the hat down firmly onto his black curls with one hand as he reaches behind the car’s visor for the keys with the other. Quickly starting the car, he hits the accelerator, and the car fishtails for a couple of seconds before gaining purchase and roaring toward the gate. 

In the rear view mirror, he can see Mycroft standing in the driveway, shaking the rubber chicken over his head in rage. He grins unreservedly as the car swerves out of the driveway and onto the main road.

**-Voiceover-  
My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I just earned a substantial bonus for stealing a tightly woven, hand blocked, dearly loved Panama hat worth $8,000 and replacing it with a rubber chicken. That I just made my brother-slash-keeper-slash-arch enemy late for an important dinner is icing on a very satisfying cake. Unfortunately, not all my cases are so easy, or so delightful. And I don’t always have the delicious luxury of working alone.**

The Ferrari races along the highway as the sun continues to set.

XXXXX

Sherlock walks with purpose up the sidewalk of a beachfront single story building. He is wearing a tailored pair of denim trousers with an impeccable crease, and an understated Hawaiian-style shirt of rich damask, bearing a subtle black-on-black pattern of hibiscus flowers. The shirt fits a little more closely than is the normal fashion. The morning sun shimmers off the ocean as Sherlock turns and bounds up the stairs.

**-Voiceover-  
I’m constantly reminded of how the architecture of Hawaii is so brutal, when the natural surroundings are so… well, beautiful. I’m not a romantic man, not by any means, but even I can appreciate the lush setting of my adopted island. As for flat, featureless, military-style buildings, I’ve had enough of those for a lifetime. And yet.**

Sherlock pulls the door open, and we can see a brass plaque on its surface, reading “THE DIOGENES CLUB” in simple, elegant text, and below that, “MEMBERS ONLY.” As Sherlock starts to enter, a young man in a white shirt, red jacket and bow tie scurries up to intercept him.

“Sir. Sir! May I see your membership card?” The young man smiles nervously as he goes to block Sherlock’s movement through the door. Sherlock’s eyes narrow and flick quickly up and down the young man’s figure.

**-Voiceover-  
I said military-style buildings, not military, thank God. Though this young man would thrive in the service. Obvious attraction to authority figures. Sexual response to the invocation of law and order. Uniform fetish, both wearing and oh, yes, observing. Our young doorman likes to watch, and gender doesn’t matter. Where does Molly find these jewels?**

“Oh! Oh, hello, Sherlock. We’ve been waiting.” A slender woman in a soft dress of light blue rushes over, placing her hand on the young man’s shoulder and gently pushing him back, out of Sherlock’s path. “Um, Charles, this is Sherlock Holmes. He’s a, um. Friend. Colleague. Yes. Anyway, he’s here on club business, so, right. Um. Oh, Sherlock, this is, this is Charles.”

**-Voiceover-  
Lieutenant Commander Molly Hooper, Navy Medical Examiner, could dress a lazy captain down in three different languages while holding a human spleen in her hand after thirty-six straight hours in a poorly ventilated makeshift morgue in the jungles of Vietnam, but Molly Hooper, club manager, can’t manage a simple societally prescribed social interaction without a half hour of practice and a script. I know better than to push her, though. There is a steel core in that velvet glove.**

Sherlock draws in a breath, but before he can speak, Molly straightens and adopts a slightly louder, more authoritative tone as she speaks. “Don’t say it, Sherlock, just…don’t.”

Sherlock turns his face to her, and widens his eyes in mock innocence. 

“Don’t give me that look. Just leave him alone. You can deduce him later. Greg’s here, and we’ve been waiting. Move it.”

Sherlock casts a sly glance toward Charles, whose face is now flushed, his mouth hanging slightly open as he stares at Molly with poorly disguised adoration. “Yes, ma’am,” Sherlock says, and grins as Charles’ bowtie jumps over a hard swallow.

As they step away and head back into the darkened club, Sherlock leans into Molly and whispers conspiratorially, “You should wear the black heels tomorrow. He likes a little height. I’ll bet you could get him to wash your car for you.”

Molly flushes, but her eyes stay fixed ahead and her voice is steady. “Shut the hell up, Sherlock.”

“With his tongue.”

Molly huffs and speeds up to walk ahead of Sherlock, but not before he sees her amused smile.

They walk past the bar and through the swinging doors of the kitchen. Molly stops and casts an experienced eye over the morning’s preparations as Sherlock continues under the fan, past the grill, and through the door that leads to Molly’s generously sized office. A handsome, silver haired man wearing a navy blue Izod polo shirt, an Annapolis ball cap, and a day’s growth of beard is sitting at the conference table, a cup of coffee in one hand as he flips through a file folder with the other.

**-Voiceover-  
Lieutenant Commander Greg Lestrade, late of New Orleans, retired Naval investigator, now local helicopter pilot and tour guide. Came up post-Academy from the aviation side with an engineering degree and a nose for truth. I never had much good to say about the competence of the investigative team I worked with in Vietnam, but Greg somehow managed to earn and even maintain my respect. He’s still tolerable company.**

“Morning, Sherlock.” Greg takes a sip of his coffee, and waggles his fingers in greeting without looking up. “Coffee’s fresh.”

“Did you make that chicory rubbish, or is it club coffee?”

“Diogenes’ finest, fresh off the roaster.”

“All right, then.” Sherlock pours a cup of coffee and adds two spoons of sugar. He takes a sip as he considers Greg over the edge of the cup.

“Rough night last night?” Sherlock says casually, as he walks around the table to take a chair at the other side. He carefully does not make eye contact.

Greg glances up, but then drops his eyes back to the papers before him. “No, not really. Slept pretty well.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Sherlock says in a neutral tone. His eyes briefly narrow with warm concern.

Greg sighs and shakes his head. “Dammit, Sherlock.”

“You’re better off. This wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t even the first time with this man.”

Greg twists his fingers for a moment, but then he sighs again and looks across the table with sad eyes. Sherlock’s face is again impassive. Greg speaks in a quiet voice. “If I could just get her out of the bars, you know? She’s bright, she could get an education. She’s got a good heart, but she gets a whiff of snow and, then someone asks her to go out to the alley, and well, you know.” A stricken look crosses his face. “I mean, you don’t know. Well, you know, but…”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock interrupts. “It’s all fine.” He takes another sip of coffee, and pretends to consider the papers on the table.

 **-Voiceover-  
I don’t have friends, but if I did, I would probably consider Greg for the position. He’s got all the qualifications one looks for a companion: integrity, discretion, generosity, availability. He can be amusing, if that matters. He’s a decent shot, too, and handy with a med kit. He saved my life in Vietnam, and probably not in the way you’d think. I suppose I owe him, though not only for that.**

Molly walks into the office, grumbling under her breath. Greg straightens and forces a faint smile. “All right, there, Molly?” he asks. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Of course she’s not all right. Someone in the kitchen is working with a member of the bar staff to smuggle liquor off the shelves and onto the local black market. It’s not the new line cook, though he has a guilty conscience about something; probably he’s the one breaking into the members’ cars after finishing in the kitchen for the night. No, it’s almost certainly the dishwasher. Not the tall fellow with the skin condition, the other one. It’s all right there. Two terms in prison for non-violent crimes, one somewhere in the American south, probably Georgia, possibly Alabama. His boyfriend…”

“Boyfriend?” Greg interrupts.

Sherlock’s eyes flash for a moment, but then he continues. “…Yes, boyfriend, Greg, it does happen, you spent time on an aircraft carrier, do keep up. His boyfriend is an opioid addict, probably hydrocodone, working through a 12-step program. He’s trying to make a fresh start, but the new painting business isn’t doing as well as they hoped, and they’re struggling to make ends meet.”

Sherlock stops to take a breath. Greg and Molly are both staring now, eyes wide with surprise, Greg with a grin. “What? Did you not want to know?”

Molly shakes her head in wonder, and starts to smile herself. “No, Sherlock, that was, um, good. Really good. Right. Um, I’ll talk to Chef when we’re done here.”

Sherlock looks back at the two of them, nonplussed. “Why are you smiling? Why are you both smiling?”

Greg leans back, his smile broadening. “It’s just been a while since you did your, you know, thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Greg’s smile dims, and his eyes take on a faint look of sadness. “Yeah, you do.”

Sherlock looks between the two of them and then shakes his head dismissively. “You’re both idiots. There, that’s the “club business” done. Now tell me, what is so important that I had to come all the way down here?”

Molly’s smile fades. “I got a message from Sebastian Wilkes. He’s coming to see you.”

XXXXX

The Ferrari roars up the driveway, whipping around the main house and pulling up to the guest house behind. Sherlock jumps out of the car and walks quickly to the front door. He unlocks the door, pausing to shift the door knocker off center before entering the cottage. Inside, we see a sunlight-washed great room with high ceilings. Sherlock clatters down two short sets of stairs to the living area below.

**-Voiceover-  
In the great hall of idiots, Sebastian Wilkes holds pride of place. He combines a rare gift for fawning with a stunning lack of native intelligence. It’s not an overstatement to say he has one of the most unpleasant personalities ever demonstrated by a human being. When we were both midshipmen at Annapolis, I overheard one professor tell another that Sebastian Wilkes made me look like Miss Congeniality. After some consideration, I was forced to concede the point. His family is, or at least was, incredibly wealthy, though, and very well connected, and they pulled enough strings to get him a nomination to the Academy. I heard later that he used up all his favors dodging combat billets, and when he was justifiably passed over for promotion, he resigned his commission in a fit of pique. We all lost track of him as the years passed, but no one missed him. Last I heard, he was in DC, trying to drum up consulting work. Sebastian Wilkes has always been a waste of carbon; there is no reason to believe anything has changed.**

Sherlock jumps the last two steps to land gracefully in front of the closet at the foot of the staircase. He dives into the closet, and we hear thumps and grunts and mild curses until he re-emerges, somewhat rumpled, holding a Naval Academy yearbook in triumph. As he closes the door, he is startled by a rubber chicken flying by his head with impressive velocity, missing his ear by mere inches. Sherlock flinches, and whips his head around to see Mycroft standing on the landing of the stairs just above him.

“Here is what is going to happen, little brother, “ Mycroft says with a brittle smile and eyes cold as ice. “We are going to have a little chat, you and I. I am going to remind you of a few ground rules. You are going to recommit yourself to their careful observance. We are going to have a drink together to seal our accord. Finally, you are going to return my hat to me, unharmed, with a rueful smile and a heartfelt apology. How does that sound?”

Sherlock’s surprise has faded, and he pulls himself to his full height as Mycroft moves gracefully down the staircase and meets him face to face. Sherlock sneers. “Honestly, Mycroft. Using a chicken as a weapon. I should call the Humane Society and report you.”

Mycroft scoffs. “A childish toy. Only appropriate, I suppose, as it is owned by a child.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “I am not a child, Mycroft.”

Mycroft arches an eyebrow. “Oh, really? You pretend at having a real job. You live in someone else’s home, play in someone else’s automobile, and eat food prepared by someone else, when you bother to eat real food at all. You rarely pay your own bills. You live on catnaps interspersed with torpid sleep binges. You play immature…” Mycroft sniffs. “…pranks. You are completely dependent on older family members for survival.” Mycroft presses his lips into a tight smile. “Tell me, Sherlock, am I describing you, or a seven year old child?”

Sherlock is furious now, eyes wild, hands shaking with rage. “Ah, yes, well, we know why and how I was made dependent, now, don’t we, big brother? You’ve locked away my inheritance. It’s not like I can just pick up the phone and re-up with the Navy, now, is it?”

Mycroft remains calm. “After your pilot friend called me that night, it became apparent you had to be protected from your own worst impulses. Had I not taken action, you’d most likely be dead. I acted in your best interests.”

Sherlock throws his hands into the air with frustration. “Yes, of course. Being a power hungry, manipulative bastard has nothing to do with it.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrow, but his voice doesn’t change. “Nothing at all.”

Sherlock takes a step toward him. “You know, Mycroft, there’s something I’ve never asked you. Since we are negotiating our new …accord? How appropriately diplomatic. Anyway. In the interests of full disclosure, may I ask you a somewhat theoretical question?”

Mycroft tilts his head tightly to the side and considers his brother suspiciously. “Very well. Though I do not guarantee an answer.”

Sherlock laughs and takes another step forward. Mycroft steps back, maintaining the distance. “Oh, no, of course. I appreciate the need for discretion,” Sherlock narrows his eyes, “as you well know. So here is my question. Work with me, here. Imagine you were, try hard now, a man of integrity, and hmmm, I don’t know, doing your job as a Naval Investigator, and you uncovered, oh, let’s say, a human trafficking ring.”

Mycroft winces. “Sherlock, this is old, well traveled ground.” 

Sherlock persists. “Yes, well, humor me, and then we’ll have that drink. Say you keep doing your _job_ , and you trace the ring back to a starting point in the Admiralty ranks. That would probably be some impressive work, by the way. First rate investigation, there. And say you that after weeks of going to the office every day, looking at pictures of people, _children_ who had been horribly mistreated, and interviewing men who treated you like dirt, knowing they would leave your office and make a call that would remove them from harm’s way, well, imagine that you get a little, oh, you know, stressed from the pressure and the politics and the anger. Right? The tragic injustice of it all. And then say one lovely morning, you get a polite call from a police officer in Cambodia, asking for your help because they’ve just arrested one of the men you’d interviewed, just ten days before. He’s been picked up in a hotel room with two young women, very young, and both of the girls are now dead. Can you picture that? Are you there with me? Well, no, we know how you hate legwork, you’d never have been there with me, but do you have the picture in mind?”

Sherlock steps so close to his brother that their foreheads nearly touch. The stairs prevent Mycroft from stepping back any further. Neither seems willing to look away.

When Sherlock continues, it is in a soft voice, but there is molten steel in his stare.

“Now tell me, brother. I must know. Assuming all of that was true, and that you had a _soul_ , wouldn’t _you_ try to blow your brains apart with cocaine?”

The two men stand mere inches apart, eyes boring into each other. A long minute passes. And then without moving, in the same soft tone as before, Sherlock asks, “Is scotch OK?”

Mycroft blinks, startled by the change in topic. “Pardon?”

“Scotch. Whiskey. I have scotch, or I have beer. Which would you prefer?”

“Oh. Right.” Mycroft leans back and clears his throat a little before answering in a scratchy voice. “Scotch would be lovely.”

Sherlock steps away calmly, only the flush on his face betraying the intensity of the previous conversation. He turns toward the bar. “Neat or on the rocks?”

Mycroft straightens his cuffs, back in control once more. “Don’t ruin my whiskey with ice. I’m not a bloody American.”

Sherlock splashes two fingers each into two glasses, and hands one to Mycroft. “To the regiment, Mycroft,” he says, and throws his drink back. He replaces his glass on the bar, and starts to walk back to his bedroom. Without looking at his brother, he says in a subdued tone, “Your precious hat is atop the skull on the coffee table. By the way, you were fleeced. There are no more than 2,000 weaves per square inch on that thing.” He pauses as he reaches the door. “Show yourself out. I need to go play at being a detective.”

Sherlock steps through his bedroom door and closes it behind him firmly.

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-  
God, Mycroft makes Sebastian Wilkes look like a _saint_.**

As Sherlock steps further into the room, we hear water running in the bathroom. Sherlock frowns and picks up the cricket bat that is leaning against the wall by the door. He moves silently to the bathroom door, bat at the ready. Bracing himself, he throws open the door, pushes back the shower curtain, and then slowly lowers the bat as he considers the sight before him, a resigned look on his face.

**-Voiceover-  
You have to die to be named a saint, right? In that case, the analogy still holds.**

XXXXX

We are outside the guest house. Several police cars line the curved driveway, and their lights flash red and blue against the stucco walls. Molly is talking to a serious man with an impressive moustache next to a navy blue sedan with the word “Coroner” stenciled on the door. Greg is smoking a cigarette a few yards away from her, pretending not to listen. Sherlock is on the porch, animatedly talking to a round man in a polyester suit. Mycroft stands six feet away from them, listening closely and scowling. A uniformed police offer wearing latex gloves comes to the door from inside, and gestures for them to step aside. Two men in scrubs, gloves and masks then emerge, pushing and pulling a covered gurney through the doorway. All in attendance fall silent and watch as the gurney is loaded into a waiting ambulance, which then drives slowly away with no siren.

**-Voiceover-  
Sebastian Wilkes wasn’t difficult to like; he was impossible to like. Still, I wouldn’t have wished him dead. Forgive me, but I especially wouldn’t have wished him dead in my own shower. At best, this might be difficult to explain. At worst, I’m on my way to some time in a poorly air conditioned sensory deprivation chamber. Fortunately, I can account for most of my time this morning. Mycroft is well enough known that his account of my physical state before the body was found is being accepted with no question. No blood, my own clothes, relatively calm, sober; no damning evidence to go on, if you ignore the dead body in my house. Molly is checking with the coroner about time of death, but her own assessment is that I missed the murder by an hour or so. Molly is very good at what she does, or used to do. She’s also very charming, when she wants to be.**

A burst of bright feminine laughter comes from the direction of the coroner’s car; Molly covers her mouth and looks around with exaggerated chagrin. Next to her, the coroner grins a shy grin.

**-Voiceover continues-  
So, an hour then. And no sign of the murder weapon. Sebastian was stabbed several times, but that didn’t kill him. One especially ragged wound to the upper abdomen seemed to have barely bled at all. The blood was splattered low on the wall and curtain, and there were no defensive marks on the hands. Conclusion: Sebastian had already collapsed when the attack commenced. **

**He probably wasn’t surprised; he had been anticipating trouble. Those hands? The nails were newly chewed down to the quicks. There were new calluses along both palms; he had recently started an aggressive program of weight lifting, trying to bulk up. There was a bruise at the base of his right thumb, where he had been shooting with an unfamiliar gun. And of course, he had reached out to me. He knew I hated him; he must have been desperate. So what would lead an arrogant sod who had been well trained in self defense by the United States Navy to just lie down and allow such a violent attack?**

“Cocaine,” says Greg, as he steps up behind Sherlock.

“No thanks, I’m fine,” Sherlock answers distantly. Mycroft’s frown grows deeper, but Greg just waits for Sherlock to come back to the present. After a minute, Sherlock’s eyes focus, and then narrow with new concentration. “Wait, what?”

“I overheard the coroner telling Molly. They found a thin cord under Sebastian’s tongue. When they pulled it, it brought up a chain of small plastic balloons, filled with what looked like cocaine. They stopped pulling when it…” Greg looked vaguely ill.

“When it caught. Of course it’s cocaine. It’s certainly not confectioners’ sugar. That explains it then.”

“Explains what?”

“How he was dead before they killed him.”

“Come again?”

“He had swallowed the chain. It’s an open question as to whether that action was voluntary, but there it was. The loop under the tongue would enable its retrieval on demand, rather than having to wait on the, er, traditional method of delivery. When they stabbed him, they were attempting to rupture a package. Pop the balloon, and Sebastian dies of a stabbing and an overdose, at the same time. Neat.”

“Neat? No, Sherlock, that is not neat. That is horrific.”

Sherlock sighs. “It’s grotesque, I’ll grant you. And it didn’t work as intended, since Sebastian was already under the influence when they attacked. I’m sure they’ll find that a bag had already leaked. But consider. Why would someone do that? A blow to the abdomen could be enough to rupture the balloon. Or pinholes in one of the bags, slow leak gets him before he has a chance to catch on. No, this is something more. This is a message.”

“A message? A message to whom?”

“Well, he died in my bathroom, didn’t he?”

XXXXX

The Ferrari pulls up in front of a sleekly elegant building, a rare exception to the mirrored shards and stuccoed boxes of the Waikiki cityscape. Sherlock steps out of the car and hands his keys to the handsome, moustached valet working the front desk. He buttons his perfectly fitted blazer while looking up at the top of the building, where the penthouse windows gleam. He sighs a deep sigh, and then, with the demeanor of a man walking to the gallows, starts toward the building entrance.

**-Voiceover-  
Life on an island can be quite insular. Of course, there are the tourists. Occasionally, someone relocates to here or away, or if you’re lucky, there’s a murder, but otherwise, you tend to see and hear about the same people. Even if you move in different social strata, as my work ensures I do, the same names tend to come up again and again. It can be unbearably dull, but I have to admit it’s convenient at times. **

**So, the list of people for me to consult on a matter such as this is very short. As a matter of fact, it consists of one name. One polished, beautiful, seductive, irritating name.**

Sherlock steps to the front desk.

“Sherlock Holmes to see Irene Adler, please. She’s expecting me.”

****

**-Cue Credits-**

NEXT WEEK ON SHERLOCK, P.I.: We meet the mysterious Irene Adler, and Sherlock is forced to face one of his greatest fears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With eternal gratitude to all who encouraged me to take this on. Special shout out to Mazarin221b, who is the worst enabler/best cheerleader on the planet. Many thanks to 221bjen, EnduringChill and mydwynter, for their opinions and kindnesses. Go check out falltvseasonsherlock.tumblr.com for more fusion fics.


	2. PILOT: Only Idiots Eat the Snow in Hawaii (Part 2 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate to solve his case and avoid arrest, Sherlock is forced to ask for help from the mysterious Irene Adler. 
> 
>   _"...you must know, Mr. Holmes, it is a matter of principle that no product in this office is given away for free.”_

**_Last time on Sherlock, P.I.:_** an old Navy buddy sent word that he was coming to ask Sherlock for help. Before they could meet, the friend met an untimely end in Sherlock’s shower. Anxious to avoid arrest and to solve the case, Sherlock has gone to seek assistance from a well connected woman of mystery.

XXXXX

"Sherlock Holmes to see Irene Adler, please. She's expecting me."

Sherlock adjusts the cuffs of his silk shirt where they peek from the sleeves of his elegant black blazer. He maintains a confident, almost bored expression as he waits for the receptionist to check her schedule.

The receptionist smiles knowingly. "Of course, sir. Elevator to the top floor, please."

Sherlock nods.

**-Voiceover-**  
**Irene Adler occupies a rare place in local society. Mycroft is acquainted with her from upper class functions, and I’ve seen her on the guest list for Robin Masters’ annual Christmas ball. I’ve heard her described in tones ranging from admiring to disdainful to fearfully respectful by members of disparate ranks of the police force. I’ve seen her photographed at least twice with the mayor of Honolulu, and once in a pose of casual familiarity with Hawaii’s senior U.S. Senator. She’s a major sponsor of the annual Hawaiian heritage festival, as well as the Fire Fighters’ marathon, three low-income preschools, and at least two high school marching bands. She has a permanently reserved table at the Diogenes Club, and is well sought after as a considerate, scintillating dinner companion. In short, she knows and is known by everyone. Not bad, really, for the madam of the most exclusive brothel in the islands.**

The elevator doors open, and we see Sherlock step out from our point of view behind and over the creamy, smooth, unblemished, very naked shoulder of a slender, dark haired, very naked woman.

Sherlock stops suddenly, taking in the stunning view before him before he sighs and rolls his eyes. “Really, Irene? Again?”

Irene Adler walks forward to place a kiss on his cheek, and then pulls back to wipe off the mark of her scarlet lips. In profile, we can see her wide smile. “Can’t blame a girl for trying, Mr. Holmes.” She chuckles, and turns to walk toward a plush chaise placed just so in the luxurious room. Sherlock is careful to look at anything other than her bare behind. Irene smiles fondly as she watches his reflection in the surface of a carefully placed wall mirror. She picks up an ivory silk robe from the back of the chair and gracefully wraps herself in it.

“I’m so glad to see you’ve escaped arrest so far, Sherlock. You’re lucky you got Dimmock. He doesn’t hate you yet, and he actually believes in the importance of evidence and the presumption of innocence. I know of at least three other detectives who would pay good money to see you incarcerated, and I am aware of one who has a…” Irene licks her lips before continuing. “…shall we say, particular desire to see you in handcuffs.”

“And how would you know this, Miss Adler?”

“The same way you know things, Mr. Holmes. Via investigation, interrogation, deduction, and…observation.” Irene’s eyes flick toward the door in the corner. “I find observation especially useful.”

Sherlock tenses. “God, Irene, now? Anyone I know? Wait, don’t tell me.”

**-Voiceover-**  
**“Brothel” isn’t really the correct term for Irene’s type of business. She caters to a widely varied clientele with a broad and ambitious menu. She has a reputedly well trained and imaginative staff, and can offer almost anything one might, well, desire with a minimum of notice. Her work requires…equipment. People travel from great distances for her services. She’s chartered Greg’s most extensive tour twice, and after the second time, he had a stutter that took three weeks to resolve. I admire her productivity, if not her product. I personally have seen each of her “suites,” but I’ve sampled the wares of none. It’s not because they haven’t been offered.**

Sherlock turns to consider the door for a long moment, and then his eyes sweep the room, lingering on seemingly random objects. He spends long seconds considering the carpet leading from the elevator to the door before cocking a skeptical eyebrow. He turns, and his eyes come to rest on a single highball glass that stands on the elegant bar in the corner. He stares at the glass for one more moment, before turning back to Irene with a smirk.

“He really should invest in better shoes. He’s won an Oscar. Appearance matters.”

Irene smiles. “He thinks he’s in disguise. He tried a different walk today, and I thought he was going to fall over his own feet. And my god, the moustache he’s grown. Poor Bonnie. She’ll need pancake after this session.” She rolls her eyes. “You must be distracted. Normally you’d have made that call before you even noticed I was naked.”

“You’ve gained four pounds.”

“Yes, in all the right places.” Irene smiles widely now. “Step into my parlor, Mr. Holmes, before the timer dings and you find out first hand how my favorite thespian benefits from flattering angles and a well endowed body double. I’ll call for tea.”

“God, yes, please. You drive me crazy, Irene, but you do have the best tea on the island.”

Irene cocks an eyebrow before she turns to lead Sherlock into the next room. “I’d love to drive you crazy. Bet I know what you like.”

**-Voiceover-**  
**I suspect she does. I’m certain she knows whom I like as well, but she’s never said a word. Sometimes I think Irene is the closest thing I have to a true friend. Other times, I worry.**

XXXXX

Sherlock, Greg and Molly are seated around a table on the beachfront patio of the Diogenes Club. Greg is enthusiastically devouring a tall sandwich, while Molly neatly enjoys a salad. Sherlock has only a cup of tea in front of him, and is distractedly tearing a roll into small pieces.

“I went to talk to Irene Adler yesterday,” Sherlock says calmly.

Greg chokes on a bite of his sandwich. Molly slowing stops chewing, but doesn’t raise her eyes from her plate.

“Hang on, I’m all right,” Greg says. “Let me just…” He takes a large gulp of water, shaking his head. “Damn, warn a man, won’t you?”

Molly still doesn’t look up, but a slight flush has settled on her cheeks, and a smile plays around her lips.

“I thought she might know something about Sebastian. She’s got connections everywhere, especially on the criminal side. If the murder was truly drug related, she’d be the one to ask.”

“And did she know anything? Did she tell you anything?”

Sherlock grimaces. “Well, yes, eventually.”

XXXXX

Back in Irene’s penthouse, Irene leads Sherlock into a cozy, softly lit room lined with richly bound books. There are two large, plush couches intimately arranged across from each other. Small tables to the sides of the couches are littered with a random assortment of items: a deck of playing cards, a few screws of varying lengths, a coach’s whistle, two thick black feathers, an egg timer, a squash ball, a roll of duct tape, five or six multicolored Legos, and a small silver bell. Irene pushes the door nearly closed behind them, and motions Sherlock to one of the sofas with an elegant gesture. As he takes his seat, she rings the bell.

Sherlock casts a casual glance at the detritus on the tables. “God, don’t tell me you make them step on Legos, Irene. I didn’t think you were that deeply into sadism.”

Irene takes a seat across from Sherlock with a smile. “I wouldn’t think you’d know about Legos, Sherlock.”

“Yes, well, they are a European invention after all.”

“And is that how you know about sadism?”

Sherlock smirks, but doesn’t answer. He continues to consider the materials on the table next to him with an expression of mild curiosity.

“I wouldn’t touch the feathers, if I were you,” Irene says softly.

Sherlock smiles an amused half smile. “Really, Irene. In a library?”

Irene chuckles. “A library? No one ever reads these books.”

“Of course not. It’s an American library.”

Irene laughs. “All right then, but tell me.” She levels her gaze at him, eyes still sparkling. “Where better to seduce you than a library?”

“A crime scene, perhaps.”

“Oh, very well, we can arrange that, too.”

Sherlock is chuckling openly now, as the door pushes open. A lovely young woman enters, pushing a well-appointed tea cart. Irene thanks and dismisses her. The door closes firmly behind her as she goes. Irene moves to pour the tea.

Sherlock takes a deep breath before speaking. “Irene, I was hoping you might help me. I need some information.”

Irene turns a quarter turn toward him, humming an acknowledgment as she adds sugar to one of the cups. “I thought you might. And I think I can help you, at least a little.” She hands him his cup on a delicate saucer, and, taking her own, settles into the couch opposite. “But you must know, Mr. Holmes, it is a matter of principle that no product in this office is given away for free.”

Sherlock shakes his head as his smile slowly fades. His voice, however, is warm. “Irene, you know, and I know you know, that there is nothing you could want that I would be willing to give you.”

Irene cocks an eyebrow, and smirks. “Well, you might be surprised at that. I’m far more complicated than I seem. And you catch me in a rare good mood today. So it appears to me that I am the driver on this bus, so to speak. There are two things you seek: help clearing your name, and help solving the case.”

Sherlock shifts nervously in his seat. “Yes.”

“I can help you. Will you make it worth my while?”

“I fear I am at a loss, here, Irene.”

“Very well, then. I’ll be direct.” Irene straightens in her seat. “I want you to strip for me.”

Sherlock’s mouth drops open, and he stares, speechless. His cup rattles briefly on its saucer. Irene offers him a bland smile and takes a sip of her tea. Finally, Sherlock clears his throat.

“I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”

“It’s a simple game, Sherlock. You must have played something like it in the Navy. You give me a piece of clothing, and I give you a piece of information. We go until you have all you need, or you run out of clothing.”

Sherlock’s voice squeaks as he asks, “But, why?”

Irene rolls her eyes. “Why? Why not? Because I can. I’m bored as hell, that’s why. And because…” She leans forward in her seat, and smiles a predator’s smile. “Because I want to _see_ you,” she finishes breathily.

Sherlock is now pale, and there is pleading in his eyes as he asks, “Can’t I just take you to dinner?”

XXXXX

We are back on the patio at the Diogenes Club. Sherlock now has a slight flush on his cheeks, but Greg does not seem to notice. Molly is looking out at the ocean, but her attitude is one of close attention.

“Sebastian had just signed a consulting contract with an import/export company, and was trying to work his Navy contacts to smooth the waters for some big shipment from Saigon.”

Greg snorts. “I suppose we can guess what kind of shipment.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Surprisingly enough, it was legitimate goods. The manifest says tree nuts, whatever those are. But the company management is quite ambitious, apparently, and has contracts to move all kinds of things, including everyone’s favorite packing material, coffee.”

Molly stirs. “Coffee?” she asks.

Sherlock nods. “The scent confuses the sniffer dogs.”

Greg nods knowingly. “God, remember that smuggling case? If you hadn’t noticed those screws, I bet we’d still be looking for that coke.”

Molly looks between them. “Wait, screws? What does that have to do with coffee?”

“We were investigating a large shipment of coffee, hundreds of crates. The screws on the crates had two different coatings. You could see different sheens to them from a distance. But each crate only had a single type,” Sherlock said. “So, the boxes had been constructed in two different places. The ones with dull screws had been made with channels cut into the wood of the crates themselves. The drugs were sealed into the channels. It was clever.”

Greg shakes his head. “Not clever enough. We got the Navy boys who were helping them through port, and yanked a lot of coke out of circulation. Pissed off all the right people. That was a good day, man.”

Sherlock glances at him, with the hint of a smile on his lips. Molly watches them both with a tinge of sadness around her eyes.

XXXXX

Irene shakes her head. “A watch is not clothing, Sherlock, it is an accessory.”

“Technically speaking, so are shoes, but you let me use them. I say the watch counts.”

“Shoes are not _jewelry_.”

“These shoes are. Do you know what they cost?”

Irene rolls her eyes. “Your brother buys you pretty things. All right, fine. I’ll allow the watch. You’re just delaying the inevitable, though.”

Irene frowns as she sees a flash of true panic in Sherlock’s eyes.

“For the watch: all of the export manifests were legitimate, but they were just about to start the next phase…”

XXXXX

Greg gestures with his fork between bites of potato salad. “So Sebastian’s company was, what, sending normal stuff, but planned to start smuggling drugs once the channels were well established?”

Sherlock looks down at the table and clears his throat. The flush is back. “That’s what Irene told me, yes.”

XXXXX

Irene thoughtfully considers her manicure. “Pants.”

“They’re called trousers.”

"They're pants, Sherlock."

“Trousers. Pants are underwear.”

Sherlock is standing now, and has moved behind one of the small occasional tables, as though it provides some protection. Irene gestures to his waistband.

“In this country, _those_ are pants.”

“I’m not _from_ this country.”

Irene sighs a long-suffering sigh.

“Fine. You know, it’s fine. Sherlock Holmes…”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

“Take your trousers off.”

XXXXX

Greg grabs the last bread crust off his plate as the waiter starts to clear it away.

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. "If you're finished? Now, it's not clear how Sebastian got word of this business opportunity, and I think that’s probably significant. We all agree Sebastian was an idiot, correct?”

The other two immediately nod.

“Right. So I have to think he was directed by someone who wanted him there.”

Greg swallows.“Family connection?”

“You’re firing on all cylinders today, Lestrade, but no. This company is Saigon owned and run. There’s no connection to Sebastian’s family anywhere, and I _looked_. Sebastian himself said his family had nothing to do with it.”

“How did Irene know that?”

“Sebastian applied for a membership to her um, exclusive club not too long ago. He was turned down, but she interviewed him first.”

“Why’d she turn him down?”

“Said he was a bad risk, and not her type besides.”

Beside them, Molly lets out a soft sigh.

XXXXX

“If you had a moustache, I’d let facial hair count. If you’d let me watch, that is. You and a straight razor. All those delicious angles. Rather sexy, I should think.”

“Well, I don’t have a moustache.”

“You should grow a moustache.”

“It won’t solve my immediate problem.”

“Have you ever had a moustache?”

“Shut up.”

“Can you even _grow_ a moustache?”

“SHUT UP.”

XXXXX

Molly hands Greg a napkin and gestures to the corner of her mouth.

“The vessels were fitted with US radar and tracking equipment. There’s no way this outfit should have been able to afford that kind of hardware. There’s no record anywhere of the purchase or shipping of that equipment, and there should be. It was military grade.”

Greg pauses, wide eyed in surprise. “How did Irene know THAT?”

“Apparently she has friendly relationships with the harbor masters of all the major ports on Oahu, Hawaii, and Maui. She considers it an investment.”

“Ah. By friendly relationship, she means…”

Sherlock shrugs. “She says she knows what they like.”

Molly bites her lip and looks pensive.

XXXXX

There is a pile of accessories – watch, shoes, socks, beeper - on top of Sherlock’s suit jacket and trousers where they lie on the couch.

Irene is leaning against the back of the soft, one arm thrown across the back. Her expression is carefully neutral, but her pupils are dilated and her lips slightly parted. Sherlock is standing before her, clad only in a white silk dress shirt, still carefully buttoned, and a pair of snug fitting white Calvin Klein briefs.

Irene looks him over from head to toes. “Well, Mr. Holmes. We find ourselves at the end of a very revealing discussion.”

Sherlock closes his eyes. “That would be one word for it, yes.”

Irene continues. “I’ve only two more pieces of information, and you’ve only two more things to remove. It’s almost like I planned it.”

“You’re very resourceful, Irene. I’m sure you’ve adjusted on the fly, as it were.” Sherlock’s eyes stay closed, and his voice is strained.

“Yes, well. One can’t leave everything to fate. Now, tell me. What’s next?

With his eyes still closed, Sherlock reaches out to the back of the sofa, as if for support. He appears suddenly pale. Several silent moments pass.

Finally, he speaks. “Irene, don’t do this.”

“Oh, darling. You can’t expect me to stop now. Neither of us is known for impulse control.”

“You are known for control more than anything,” he says, calmly but with obvious effort.

“Well, yes, but that’s not what we’re about right now. Come on, darling. Pop those buttons. They need relief from all that strain.”

Sherlock bites his lower lip, eyes still closed, and shakes his head.

“Sherlock.” Irene speaks wonderingly. “Sherlock, what are you hiding?”

Sherlock doesn’t move, but he opens his eyes. His expression is suddenly one of anguish. There is a sudden, palpable tension in the room. Irene’s smile falters.

“Please. Don’t do this.”

Irene shifts in her seat as if uncomfortable, but lifts her chin and looks directly into his face. Her lips are pressed together, and she lowers her brow in determination.

“Mr. Holmes, play the game.”

Sherlock stares at her for a moment too long, and then takes a deep breath that does nothing to ease the tension apparent in his body. “Very well,” he says, and Irene stifles a shudder at the deadness in his tone. He reaches for the buttons at his chest, and slowly starts to undo them. Irene leans forward, attentive. All the playfulness has left her face.

When Sherlock reaches the buttons over his abdomen, he hesitates and winces as if in pain. Face still tight, he slowly turns and gives Irene full view of his back.

The pull of the fabric across his shoulder blades shifts and eases as the last button is undone. He glances at Irene over his shoulder, and then slowly starts to push his shirt off and down one arm. His shoulder comes into view, and then one side of his upper back. His skin is smooth, ivory in color, and he is well, if leanly, muscled. He continues to slide the shirt down, and his other shoulder comes into view. As the shirt starts to slip toward the floor, he catches it and holds it around him at his middle.

“Oh. Oh, my. What a nice back,” Irene breathes. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock dips his chin nearly to his chest in a nod of acknowledgment.

“Turn around.”

Sherlock hangs his head for a beat longer, and then nods slightly. He turns back to face Irene, and slowly drops the shirt to the floor.

Irene’s fiercely curious gaze starts to run down his chest, but when she reaches his abdomen, her eyes widen and she breathes in a sharp, tiny inhale of surprise. She appears stricken. “Oh.” She looks to his face. Sherlock stands frozen, his expression unreadable. “Oh, Sherlock.” She pushes to her feet, and takes the few steps to stand immediately before him. “Has no one ever seen this?” she asks in a soft voice.

“Mycroft,” he whispers. “Doctors. No one else.”

Irene starts to move an elegant, red-tipped finger toward his chest, but her hand stops and hovers an inch away. There is the scar of a bullet wound in his chest, just to the left of midline and at the lower edge of his ribcage. It is small and clean, but glows an angry red against the porcelain plain of his chest. Irene’s gaze shifts to take in the long, smooth scar that runs down the length of his right side, starting nearly at his axilla and curving around to his lower abdomen just above his right hip.

Irene’s finger moves the final inch to gently caress the concave defect. “It looks…fatal,” she breathes.

Sherlock takes a half step back. His voice is quiet, but without affect. “I believe that was the intent.”

She looks at the long surgical scar down his side. “There were complications.”

Sherlock huffs a small, humorless laugh and looks to the ceiling. “You could say that, yes.”

Irene looks up at his face. “This wasn’t from the war.”

Still looking away, Sherlock presses his lips together. “No. This was…personal.”

Irene’s stare doesn’t change. “Ah.”

Sherlock slowly looks down to meet her gaze. They stand motionless.

XXXXX

“So did you figure it all out?” Greg asks, licking his fingers. Molly glares at him, then looks pointedly at the napkin on the table.

Sherlock is watching the seagulls stalking the now vacant neighboring tables, slight lines of tension around his eyes. “I think so, yes.”

“Well, don’t just sit there, genius, tell us!”

Sherlock looks at Greg with a very serious expression. “You’re not going to like it.”

XXXXX

After a long moment, Sherlock and Irene step back from each other. Irene slowly picks his shirt up from the floor and hands it to him. Turning, she moves to retake her perch on the sofa. “I have the password into the navigation system. Sebastian told me after a couple of rum punches.” Irene speaks quietly at first, but her voice is soon regaining its tone of flippant command. “He didn’t mean to, it was just a side note to his oh-so-gripping narrative. I don’t know if you’d be able to get any useful information from their maps, but I think the password itself is likely significant, because it’s a name.”

Sherlock slowly pulls the shirt back over his shoulders. A slight hint of color is returning to his face. “All right, what is it?”

“Miranda.”

Sherlock’s head jerks up. His eyes widen and start to shift quickly from side to side as processes what’s he’s heard. After a minute, he nods his head. “Oh, that makes sense.” He laughs, but there is no joy in the sound. “That bastard.”

“Helpful, then?” Irene asks hopefully.

“Solves the case, I think, or will, once I fill in the blanks.” Sherlock smiles a faint smile as he looks at her. “I won’t need the last clue, I believe, Miss Adler. You will be spared the sight of my arse.” He starts toward his suit, but Irene stops him with a hand on his arm.

“No, Sherlock. I have to give you this last part.”

Sherlock straightens and looks down at her. “Irene, enough. The game is a draw.”

Irene’s expression is serious, and her voice is suddenly firm. “The game is _over_. You have to listen to me now. I can’t tell you where this came from, but please believe me when I tell you to take this one thing completely…” Her eyes flick downward. ”…to heart.”

Sherlock watches her closely. “You know only a fool trusts an anonymous source.”

“Unfortunately, you’ll have to trust _me_. Telling you would be as good as cutting my own throat, Sherlock, and that’s not an option I’m willing to entertain.”

Sherlock’s eyes search her face. “You mean it.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock continues to stare at her fiercely. Finally, she breaks. “Listen to me, Sherlock, and I will make sure the police back off. We both know they don’t have a case, and I can call in a favor. Just…please. I have to tell you. I _have_ to."

Sherlock stares at her a moment longer. “All right, then, “ he says finally. “What’s the clue?”

“It’s not a clue. It’s a message. But first, a calling card, if you will.” Irene reaches to the side table nearest them, and runs her fingers through the litter on the surface. Then, looking full in Sherlock’s face, she hands him one of the screws. “The message is, ‘We made coffins then, too, and I still have yours.’”

Sherlock’s fingers tighten around the screw. He stands frozen for a moment, eyes wide, but then gasps and staggers as if punched. His knees start to buckle. Irene grabs him by his upper arms and pushes him down on to the sofa. He lowers his head and takes a couple of deep breaths, as if recovering from a blow.

“You know who it’s from, then.” There is no question in her voice.

Sherlock chokes out a tiny bark of laughter. “Oh, yes. Yes, I know.” And there is both fear and anger in his eyes as he looks up at Irene, lifting a quivering hand to the scar on his chest. “She gave me this.”

XXXXX

Greg is staring at Sherlock with disbelief. “And you’re going to just let it go?

“Yes.”

“But…why?”

Sherlock looks out to sea.

**-Voiceover-**  
**“Miranda” was the name of the daughter of the NIA Commanding Officer, Captain Barrymore. She was born just before the coffee crate bust. Barrymore and his wife fought over baby names on a daily basis for seven months, and we heard all about it. Lestrade and I both thought it was excruciating. That the name turning up now, all these years later? Well. I mistrust coincidence; the universe is rarely so lazy. So Barrymore now works for the exporters. He recruited Sebastian, ostensibly to help establish smuggling routes that would be well buried under legitimate export. I thought at first that Barrymore hoped he could use Sebastian’s family contacts at some point in the future, or that maybe he just thought Sebastian could be pushed around. However, the more I consider Irene’s message, the more I think that someone higher up than Barrymore chose Sebastian with murder in mind.**

**The hardware Irene gave me was both salute and warning. The screw, of course, refers back to the day my team successfully blocked the distribution of all that cocaine. I was just doing my job, doing what I _do_ , but someone took it personally. I see now that that shipment was part of a large web of criminal activity, and I captured the attention of the spider that day. That spider is still deciding if this fly lives, or dies.**

****

**I have an enemy, and I know one thing: this enemy is not afraid of collateral damage.**

Sherlock closes his eyes, and we are suddenly in a jungle. Sherlock stands in fatigues, his face dirty and bloodied. Around him, on the ground, are three members of his team, obviously dead of gunshot wounds. Sherlock is staring at someone in front of him. He slowly raises his hands in surrender.

**-Voiceover-**  
**It seems a lifetime ago that I had to make one very simple decision. I had to decide if someone was worth dying for. He was, and so to all practical purposes, I did.**

A laser sight appears on Sherlock’s forehead. He closes his eyes.

“He doesn’t know. Please don’t hurt him,” he says, voice cracking.

A woman’s voice. “I know. I won’t.”

Sherlock smiles with relief, eyes still closed. “Thank you,” he says.

The light trails down his face and body, slow as a caress. When it reaches his lower chest, we hear a loud gunshot.

Everything goes black.

**-Cue credits-**

NEXT WEEK ON SHERLOCK, P.I.: Meeting an old acquaintance of Mycroft's leads Sherlock to investigate the seedy side of Oahu's...dog community. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gratefully acknowledge the thorough, caring beta help of 221bJen and EnduringChill, who are entirely too generous and kind. Also, giant buckets of thanks to Mazarin221b and Mydwynter, who, for mysterious reasons best known to themselves, continue to support and encourage my attempts to scrawl pictographs on Big Chief tablets with toddler-sized crayons. You are all luscious tropical flowers in my exotic fandom garden.


	3. Old Friends (and Ugly Dogs)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A favor for Mycroft leads Sherlock to investigate the seedy side of Oahu's...dog community.

Sherlock Holmes is sitting in the middle of his sofa, hands clasped behind his head, looking at his brother with amusement.

“Say it again,” he says, his deep voice rich with amusement.

Mycroft Holmes frowns. “I see no need,” he says. “I’ve asked politely.”

“Yes. Yes, you have. Mummy would be proud.” Sherlock stretches his arms out along the back of the sofa. “But as you well know, good manners do not necessarily require me to acquiesce to your request. If you want me to do something for you, you will say it again.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “This is ridiculous. I’ll come up with something else.” He turns to leave.

“Very well. Good day, Mycroft,” Sherlock says with a grin.

**-Voiceover-  
Oh, Mycroft. He always makes it so easy. Doesn’t make it any less rewarding, though. My father used to take me to task for teasing him, said I should show more respect for my older brother. My mother used to shake her head and frown disapprovingly. It’s so disappointing when your parents don’t support your hobbies.**

Mycroft makes it up five stairs before he stops. From behind, we can see him clinch his fists, and then straighten up determinedly. He wheels around on one heel.

“You are impossible.”

“Say it.”

Mycroft huffs. “Fine. Just…fine. _Please_. Please, will you help me in this minor matter.”

Sherlock smiles, closes his eyes, and breathes in deeply, as if being presented with a richly scented flower. “Ahhhhh,” he sighs. Then, opening his eyes, he says, “You will owe me a favor.”

“Yes, I’m sure. I am also sure it will be extravagant and inconvenient, and I will grit my teeth and regret our relation yet _again_. There. Now will you help?”

Sherlock smiles an innocent smile. “But of course, dear brother. Anything for family.” 

Mycroft smiles icily back at him. “Excellent. Come to tea at four o'clock. I’d like you to meet the aunt of a dear school friend. She is a lady of some import in my circle, so try to find the costume of someone with good behavior, and dress yourself in it.” 

“I won’t embarrass you, Mycroft.” 

“Oh, of course not.” 

"Not without intention, anyway.” 

Mycroft huffs. “Four PM sharp, brother.” 

XXXXX

Mycroft's maid shows Sherlock into a well-appointed parlor, which is decorated in an upscale tropical style. A wicker-bladed ceiling fan rotates lazily, and potted palm trees are artfully placed in the corners of the room. The maid quietly reappears behind him with a classic tea service on a silver tray, which she places on a gleaming dark wood side table next to a set of traditional China teacups with a delicate floral pattern. Late afternoon sun filters through the carefully angled slats of plantation shutters. The wall clock reads 4:17 PM.

“Ah, Sherlock, here you are at last. Fashionably late as ever, though the fashion aspect could be argued.” Mycroft is seated on a rattan settee. Across from him, a lady with impeccable posture is sitting with her back facing the door. Her light brown hair is tousled in a way that manages to look both casual and expensive, though we can see natural silver catching the light of the room. Mycroft straightens and gestures negligently toward Sherlock. “Mrs. Hudson, may I present my brother, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Mrs. Martha Hudson.”

The lady turns, and Sherlock sees an older lady, casually but tastefully dressed in a long sleeved blouse and summer weight trousers. Her elegant posture is belied by the flash of her mischievous eyes. Sherlock smiles politely as he gently takes her hand. “Mrs. Hudson. Charmed.”

“Mr. Holmes. I’ve heard so much about you. Little of it has been good, mind, but I know how brothers are.”

Sherlock glances to Mycroft, who is suddenly looking a bit uncomfortable. “I see. Well, one must consider the source.”

Mrs. Hudson smiles and nods. “I ran into Mycroft at the Diogenes the other day, and told him a bit about my recent troubles. He was kind enough to offer to arrange for us to meet. Said that were generally, how did you put it, Mycroft? A pain in the arse, but he had to admit, very good at figuring out problems.”

Sherlock’s smile reaches his eyes. “He said that, did he?”

“Oh, dear, wait, I’m wrong. It was royal pain in the arse.”

Sherlock is now grinning openly. “Yes, well, Mycroft always has aspired to the ranks of royalty.”

Mycroft is blushing now. He waves the maid away with a quick brush of his hand. “You can go, Maribel. I’ll be mother.”

Mrs. Hudson glances at Mycroft with a sly grin. “I’ve asked you to talk to a therapist about that, Mycroft.”

Sherlock laughs out loud. “Oh, Mrs. Hudson. How is it we have never met before now?”

XXXXX

Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock exit the mansion together, and start to walk along the sidewalk beside the thick-bladed lawn. We can see Mycroft step to watch them from the study window, his face mildly concerned. Mrs. Hudson has taken Sherlock’s arm, and he is leaning over to listen intently as she talks.

“It might be nothing. I haven’t noticed anything around the flat. But Sherlock, I would swear that I’ve seen the same car several times when I’ve come out of the flat, and the Diogenes Club, and even once outside the market. It’s a boring car, one of those, you know, Hondas or something everyone has over here now, but it has a decal on it that is very distinctive.”

“A decal?”

“Yes, on the back window. It’s a rainbow, but square.”

“Ah. I see.” Sherlock stifles a small smile. “You don’t miss much, do you, Mrs. Hudson?” 

She shrugs. “I keep my eyes open,” she says simply. “I’m not making this up, Mr. Holmes.”

“Please, call me Sherlock. And I don’t think you are making it up. Not at all.”

“So, will you help me?”

“Mrs. Hudson, it would be my pleasure.”

Mrs. Hudson smiles at him. “In that case, let me tell you about my Victor. I think he’s the key to all of this.”

Sherlock tilts his head quizzically. “Victor?”

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-**  
 **I’m open to almost any case anywhere, as long as it isn’t boring. But I have one rule. One bloody rule. And no one knows it better than Mycroft.**

The door to Mycroft’s study flies open, nearly slamming the wall behind it with its velocity. Sherlock is standing in the doorway, hands clenched, eyes wild with rage.

“It’s. A. Dog,” he grinds out through clenched teeth.

Mycroft sits behind his desk, eyebrows lifted in feigned surprise, pencil poised in mid-air as though Sherlock has walked on his work on an important project. “Beg pardon?”

“You know what I’m talking about. You set me up with the nicest old lady on the planet and she wants me to protect her _dog_.”

Mycroft blinks and lowers his pencil. “Yes.”

“You knew.”

Mycroft sighs. “Yes, I did.”

Sherlock flops into the chair in front of the desk and rubs one hand across his eyes. _”Mycroft.”_

Mycroft sighs. “Look, Sherlock, it’s going to be all right. Victor isn’t…he’s just a _little_ dog. And she’s probably just a crazy old lady. You’ll come around a couple of evenings with a flashlight and make her think everything is fine. You probably won’t even have to see the dog.”

Sherlock slowly opens his eyes to stare silently at his brother, an expression of pained disbelief on his face. Mycroft’s gaze softens. “Sherlock, you’ll be _fine,_ ” he says softly.

Sherlock stares a moment longer, and then slowly shakes his head. “I forget how much you despise me,” he murmurs. Mycroft blinks in surprise before his expression settles into one of mild dismay.

Slowly, Sherlock pushes himself to his feet. “Good afternoon, Mycroft. I’ll not keep you from your business any longer. After all, I’ve _dogs_ to protect.”

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-**  
**Mrs. Hudson owns an apartment building in a quiet neighborhood of Makiki. She and her husband and her _dog_ live in a ground floor flat. She has several tenants, but they’ve all lived there for a significant period of time, and she’s never had a problem with anyone. She describes her tenants as something of a family. Sounds pleasant enough. She asked me not to come over the next day, but not before noon, as “poor Charlie next door works nights, and a working man needs his rest, you know.” I wonder if the _dog_ barking ever bothers him.**

**I called Greg, and he was glad for a ride in the Ferrari and the promise of lunch. There is no way I’m walking into this kennel of iniquity alone.**

The Ferrari pulls to a stop in front of a neat building with four small porches evenly spaced along street level. Sherlock and Greg walk up the steps to a corner unit. There are several healthy plants in containers scattered about the porch, and a small wind chime clinks gently in the breeze. 

Sherlock stands before the brightly colored entrance, on a doormat reading, “Forget the dog, beware of owner.” He takes a moment to consider the scratches beside the doorknob, and considers the dust and pollen on the mat. Satisfied, he rings the bell next to the vividly painted plum colored door. The loud barking of a small dog immediately rings out in reply. Sherlock recoils, and behind him, Greg snorts a laugh. There is rustling and light thumping behind the door, and we hear the muffled voice of Mrs. Hudson speaking in a cooing, soothing tone. Sherlock pastes a stiff smile on his face as the door opens.

Mrs. Hudson pushes the screen door back and steps forward into the opening, smiling widely. A small brown and white dog is wriggling in her arms. “Sherlock! So glad you could come by, thank you. Oh settle down, Victor. “ The dog wags harder in reply, craning its neck toward Sherlock and Greg. “Sorry, we just got home a bit ago. He’s still excited from the time at the kennel. Apparently he got into something and needed a bath. Ah, well. And who’s this, now?”

Sherlock is staring transfixed at the dog, but shakes out of his reverie at the question. “Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade. Greg is…” Sherlock hesitates.

“His friend. I’m Sherlock’s friend. We served together. How do you do, Mrs. Hudson?”

Mrs. Hudson smiles. “Well, much better now, with two such handsome gentleman callers. Please, come in. Victor won’t bite, and I promise I won’t either.” She turns to lead them into the flat. “Tea? Let me put the kettle on. Now, go on there, you menace,” she finishes with affection as she bends to put the dog down. The dog immediately starts racing ahead of them, circling and wagging frantically. Greg enters the apartment behind them, but Sherlock hesitates on the stoop. After a moment, he nods to himself determinedly and walks in, pushing the door closed behind them.

They all enter the parlor. “Please, gentlemen, make yourselves at home.” Mrs. Hudson walks on though an entryway hung with a beaded curtain, and the dog runs after her, leaving the two men to seat themselves. 

The room is pleasantly lit by a row of windows set into one wall. The walls themselves are papered in wallpapers of abstract designs in contrasting vivid tones. Chairs of contrasting styles (wicker, velvet upholstered, grossly overstuffed) are grouped around a coffee table that appears to be made of a large, polished tree stump. There are books scattered on every flat surface. Crocheted and knitted afghans in primary colors are thrown casually over the backs of the chairs. An old upright piano sits in one corner, topped by a collection of photos in frames of varying sizes and styles. The overall effect is bright and chaotic, but homey. As they turn to take in the furnishings, Greg stops short and his eyes widen. “Wow,” he whispers.

“Nor a style of décor you’d typically see in the island, I grant you, but it rather suits her, I…oh.” Sherlock stops as he reaches what has captured Greg’s attention. On a console table next to the doorway, there is a collection of several bongs, pipes, and stash boxes, artfully arranged.

Greg’s eyebrows are raised as high as they can go. “Um, I’m assuming those serve a…functional purpose?”

Before Sherlock can answer, Mrs. Hudson bustles in from behind the beaded curtain, a teapot in her hands. Victor is calmer now, trotting merrily at her heels. “Oh, boys, I see you’ve found my medicine cabinet. At my age, you do what you have to in order to stay active, you know.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at Greg, but his voice is dry. “Absolutely, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Now, don’t judge. You won’t be young and beautiful forever.”

“Of course, Mrs. Hudson.”

“I’ll get the mugs, and we’ll have a spot of lunch, and then we can talk about how to protect dear Victor.”

Upon hearing his name, Victor’s ears perk up and he begins to shimmy with excitement once again. Sherlock sighs deeply.

**-Voiceover-  
I shall certainly murder Mycroft. **

XXXXX

The light in the room has muted somewhat with the onset of late afternoon. The stump table is littered with small plates containing the scant remains of chicken salad sandwiches and fruit salad. Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on a wicker chair, nursing a half-filled mug of tea. Greg is leaning back into the deep velvet chair, his hands crossed comfortably over his abdomen. Mrs. Hudson sits in the upholstered Queen Anne side chair, Victor curled peacefully in her lap.

“Lovely spread, Mrs. H.,” Greg says. 

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, thanks for shutting Lestrade up. He whines like a three-year when he gets the least bit peckish.” Sherlock grins into his cup.

“Well, what’s your excuse there, Sherlock?” Greg retorts. 

“Now, boys,” Mrs. Hudson says mildly. “No violence in the parlor.” 

Greg grins. “Of course, ma’am. Not in front of the dog.”

Mrs. Hudson smiles back. “Exactly.” She turns back to Sherlock. “Now, then, Sherlock, speaking of the dog. The Hawaiian Kennel Club’s annual show is this weekend, four days away. Victor is expected to make a fine showing. He’s thought to be the one to beat this year.”

Greg looks to the dog. “He’s a cute little thing. Is he a special breed?”

Mrs. Hudson smiles widely. “Oh, yes. He’s a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Victor is descended from the very best of his breed. They’re rather popular in England, you know. They’ve only started to catch on in the states. They haven’t even recognized them as a breed yet. But there are quite a few of them around here, so they’ve created a special class for showing.”

Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin. “How many in the class?”

“Maybe a dozen? Not too many, but the competition can get rather, well, heated. “ Mrs. Hudson smiles ruefully. “People will argue about breed standards.”

Greg looks mystified, but reaches his fingers toward the dog. “Can I pet him?” Victor lifts his head, and his tail thumps gently.

“Oh, yes. He’s not normally much for men, really, but he seems quite all right with the both of you.” She carefully lifts the dog down to the floor. His nails clack on the wood flooring as he makes his way toward Greg. Greg reaches down to pet his head, but Victor makes a quick jump into his lap and immediately starts licking his chin. Greg starts laughing.

“Hello! Well, you’re a friendly little thing.” Greg rubs the dog’s ears, sending the dog’s hindquarters into a supercharged wiggle. “God, you’re cute. I miss having a dog.”

Next to him, Sherlock briefly closes his eyes, as if in pain.

**-Voiceover-  
No, first I will beat Mycroft senseless, and _then_ I will murder him. **

Mrs. Hudson leans forward. “Sherlock," she whispers. "I think I saw that Honda today…”

There’s a clatter of keys at the front door, and a large, older man enters the room. He is tall, with light auburn hair going to silver, and has the slight belly pouch of a man who is losing a life long battle with gravity. He is dressed in a royal blue Hawaiian shirt and a pair of khakis, rumpled after a day’s wear but still neatly creased. He has a confident demeanor. He smiles when he sees the group gathered around the table, displaying deep dimples, but the smile does not reach his vivid green eyes. 

“Hello, darling. Didn’t know you had company.” His voice is surprisingly light for such a big man. His accent is American, but without regional effect. 

“Frank! You’re home early. What a lovely surprise. Boys, this is my husband, Frank. Frank, this is Mycroft Holmes’ brother Sherlock, and his friend, Greg. They’re here to…” Mrs. Hudson hesitates for a brief moment, but then continues in a brighter voice. “They’re here to meet Victor.”

Sherlock is observing Victor. The dog is leaning into Greg, and watching Frank closely. The wagging has stopped. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Hudson.” He casts a quick glance toward Mrs. Hudson, who is looking to the floor and biting her lower lip. “Greg and I are both, um, fans of the smaller kinds…”

“Toy breeds,” Mrs. Hudson murmurs. 

“Right, toy breeds, and, well, we’ve heard a lot about Victor here. Mycroft finally arranged for us to meet him.” Mrs. Hudson visibly relaxes.

Frank nods, but does not make eye contact. “I see! Dog lovers. Well, that’s nice. Not much time for that kind of thing myself. Haven’t been down to the club to see old Mycroft either, been too busy working. I let Martha have all the fun.” He chuffs a humorless laugh, and Mrs. Hudson frowns. 

“Are you hungry, dear?” Mrs. Hudson starts to rise, but Frank holds out a hand to stay her. 

“No, you visit with your friends. I’ll just grab a shower and a quick snack. Got lots to get done tonight.”

“All right, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says, with a hint of resignation.

Frank steps through the beaded curtain. Sherlock considers Mrs. Hudson for a moment, and then nods, as if deciding something. He rises from the chair.

“We’ve really taken up enough of your time, Mrs. Hudson,” he says, loudly enough to be heard in the next room. “Thank you for allowing us to see Victor at last. I’m sure we’ll see you around the club.” 

He starts toward the front door, and Greg hastily moves to follow. Victor whines briefly as Greg lowers him to the floor, but then skitters over to Mrs. Hudson, who quickly gathers him up.

Sherlock steps out onto the porch, taking a deep breath before turning to Mrs. Hudson where she stands in the doorway, Victor in her arms.

“It’s not what you think,” Mrs. Hudson murmurs, her face creased with worry. 

“You don’t know what I think,” Sherlock replies. “You keep Victor close tonight. I’m going to make some inquiries. Expect to hear from me tomorrow, all right?”

Mrs. Hudson nods. “Very well. Thank you both for coming over. And Sherlock…”

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow.

“You be careful.”

Sherlock smiles a brief, genuine smile then, as he moves in to place a quick kiss on Mrs. Hudson’s cheek. “I will. You watch out for your dog, now. “

Mrs. Hudson smiles sadly. “I always do, Sherlock. He’s my boy.”

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-  
** **Mrs. Hudson has bigger problems than a dog stalker. Her husband is up to no good in several arenas. For one thing, he was out of those khaki trousers at least once during his “busy work day,” and not for work. Someone who wears his chinos that carefully pressed wouldn’t leave them crumpled on the floor for morally valid reasons. He trailed a bit of sand behind him as he walked in, so he spent at least a little time at a beach somewhere. It’s also obvious that Frank isn’t always as genial as it appeared today. Dogs are considered excellent judges of character, and Victor does not like Frank. Not that I know anything about dogs. Or want to know.**

Sherlock downshifts into a curve. The Ferrari growls and bucks just a bit.

**-Voiceover continues-  
Because I don’t.**

Sherlock narrows his eyes in the rear view mirror. 

**-Voiceover continues-**  
**Not at all.**

“So why don’t you like dogs?” Greg’s voice breaks through Sherlock’s reverie. 

Sherlock is startled. “Why do you say that?” 

“Well, you didn’t pet him. In fact, you could barely look at the little guy the entire time we were there. When you did, you had the most bitter look on your face.” Greg snorts. “I’ve seen you in some terrible places looking at some terrible stuff, and you’ve barely even blinked. So. Why don’t you like dogs?” 

Sherlock is silent for a long minute. Greg finally cracks. “Fine, don’t tell me, but if you hate dogs, why did you take…” 

“I had a dog once,” Sherlock interrupts in a rush. 

Greg blinks. “Really?” 

“I had a dog, and he died. And it was…bad.”

“Oh.” 

Sherlock is quiet for another long minute. Greg is carefully looking at the road ahead of them. 

“He got very ill, very quickly. And they had to…they had to put him down. “ 

"I see.” 

“They didn’t tell me until after. My parents made Mycroft tell me.” 

“Oh, hell.” 

“Right. You can imagine. He did not…he was not…gentle.” 

Greg is silent for several beats. “Makes sense then,” he says finally. 

Sherlock sighs. “You know how I am. You’ve seen me at my worst. I don’t -- handle feelings well.” 

Greg bites his lip for a minute, and finally chances a glance at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock looks distant and sad. 

Greg sighs. “Caring doesn’t always have to hurt, Sherlock.” 

They drive on. 

XXXXX

The morning sun shines gently on the corner table of the patio of the Diogenes Club. Sherlock stretches his legs out in front of him, and considers the horizon. The fine weave of his summer weight steel grey suit catches the dawn’s faint shimmer, and the contrasting dark blue of his dress shirt only serves to highlight the silver glow of his eyes.

“Morning, Sherlock. You look nice today. Coffee?” Molly Hooper comes up behind him with two steaming mugs. 

Sherlock nods absently. “Molly, what do you know about Frank and Martha Hudson?”

Molly sits next to him and reaches for the creamer. She stirs her coffee absently as she considers her answer. “Not much, actually. They’re members because Mycroft recommended them, and well, you know how Mycroft’s opinion counts around here.”

Sherlock snorts quietly. “Stone tablets. Mount Sinai. Right?”

Molly smiles faintly and nods. “Exactly. Mrs. Hudson is here at least a couple of times a week. She has lunch with various friends, and occasionally comes in for a cocktail party or a charity fundraiser. Oh! And she’s one of the big organizers of the annual bridge tournament.”

Sherlock scowls. “Boring. And Mr. Hudson?”

“I’ve only met him once. Oh, wait, twice. He came for that Kennel Club thing, the barbecue.” Molly frowns. “I remember because he pinched one of the waitresses on the, well, backside. Hard. I was going to have to ask him to leave, but Mycroft overheard us and said he would handle it. I haven’t seen him since. But Mrs. Hudson is very well liked. She’s a character. Very popular with that stuffy expatriate set.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“Oops, sorry. But you know.”

Sherlock nods. “Better than you can imagine.” He straightens in his seat, and regards her directly. “Does she ever bring her dog to the Club?”

“Victor? No, the board is pretty strict about pets. You know. Shame, that dog is pretty cute. She had him with her in the car once when she stopped by to drop something off.” Molly sips her coffee. “She told me once that she leaves him sometimes at that kennel down the beach, you know the one?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, sighing theatrically. “Why would I _possibly_ know a dog kennel?”

Molly shrugs. “No reason. I take an aerobics class down that way, and I thought I saw you there last week, looking at the dogs in the yard, that’s all.”

Sherlock flushes. “I might have gone by there. On a case. What was it called…the Cross Keys Kennel?”

Molly nods and looks away, obviously swallowing a grin. “I think so, yes.”

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-  
** **The Cross Keys Kennel is located right on the beach. It’s a well-regarded local boarding facility. They have a drop in “daycare” program, apparently designed to give the dogs of busy owners opportunities to socialize, and play, and I don’t know, sniff each other’s backsides or whatever it is dogs do for fun.**

Sherlock turns the Ferrari into a parking lot entrance, next to a sign that says “Cross Keys Kennel: Where Dogs Love to Luau!”

**-Voiceover continues-  
The Cross Keys has a fenced-in play area for the dogs out next to the boardwalk. Therefore, if one was, say, conducting surveillance on a target on the beach, pretending to watch the dogs would be a reasonable way to blend in. An experienced investigator uses what’s around him to deflect suspicion. That’s just good technique. Obviously.**

The Ferrari slowly circles the small lot to stop behind a nondescript sedan that is parked in the corner. It’s a silver Honda Accord, with a small gay pride flag decal low in the rear window on the driver’s side.

**-Voiceover continues-  
Well, hello there, Honda. Looks like Mrs. Hudson was right. Time to go see some dogsitters about a dog.**

XXXXX

Sherlock walks over the threshold onto the beige linoleum of the kennel waiting room. The fluorescent light of the room seems dim next to the brightness of the Hawaiian sunshine. The wall behind the reception desk is covered with walnut colored paneling, and an artificial floral arrangement featuring vivid hibiscus and ginger is featured at the end of the raised countertop. A large man with dark, wavy hair in a fashionable shag cut looks up from behind the desk. His name tag reads “Gary.”

**-Voiceover-  
Hmmm. Gary is not from around these parts, by any means, but he’s happy here. He shows all the signs of being committed to his partner: good grooming, well polished wedding band, a photo of the happy couple on prominent display behind the desk, to name the most obvious. Looks like he and his partner have a couple of dogs of their own. Big ones, too, judging by the dog hair above his knees. Black, long-haired things. He and his partner are living frugally, saving for something. The business is doing well, though. There’s a lot of foot traffic, even considering that dogs have four feet.**

“Well, hello there!” Gary smiles warmly. “Welcome to the Cross Keys Kennel. What can I do for you?”

Sherlock smiles back. “Hi,” he says, in a light, friendly voice. “I’m Sherlock. I’m new to the neighborhood. I saw your place when I was out walking and thought I’d stop in. You see, I’m really hoping to get a dog soon, but I’m worried that I might not have the time for all the walks and things. A friend of mine told me that your place helps her out with that kind of thing from time to time. Is that what you do here?”

Gary nods. “Exactly! We’re like, well, day camp for your dog. People drop off their dogs, and we have room for them to play and sleep. We feed them during the day, and can even arrange for grooming if you need it. And we have regular overnight boarding care as well. ”

“That sounds _perfect._ I didn’t know there were places like this. Have you been around long?”

Gary laughs. “Oh, we’ve been at this location for a couple of years. My partner and I relocated from Florida. We had a kennel there, but we relocated to be near his family. They helped us start this place.”

“Do you think you could…show me around a bit? I love dogs,” Sherlock confides in a whisper. “I’m so eager to get one of my own. It’s so _lonely_ in my new place.”

Gary cocks his head smiles widely. “Of course. My partner is out and about, so it’s just us. I should go check on everyone anyway, it’s almost time for recess. Let me just put a note up on the door.”

Sherlock looks at the client photographs (“Preferred Pampered Pooches!”) on the bulletin board as Gary bustles to secure the front desk. Finally, Gary gestures grandly toward the door marked “Employees Only.” “Ready?” he asks.

Sherlock follows Gary into a brightly lit hallway. Gary leads the way toward the back. “So, what kind of dog were you thinking of getting?”

“Oh, I was considering a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Do you know them? They’re quite popular back in England.”

Gary emits a little squeak of enthusiasm. “Yes, they’re lovely. They’re not that common here, but I’m sure the breed will be recognized before long. One of our favorite clients has one, and he’s a real sweetheart.”

Sherlock is watching Gary closely. “Really! Is he here today?” 

Gary shakes his head, seemingly genuine in his regret. “No, not today, I’m afraid. He only comes a couple of days a week. “

“Oh, pity. It’s been ages since I’ve seen one. My aunt had one, he was adorable.”

They reach the door at the end of the hallway. As Gary reaches for the doorknob, there’s a loud crash in the room beyond, followed immediately by the tumultuous sound of twenty dogs beginning to bark in varying degrees of excitement and panic.

“What the--?” Gary says. He quickly opens the door. They enter a large, high ceilinged, brightly lit room. There are dog runs located around the perimeter of the room, and a fenced play area in the center. A corner contains a small kitchen area with stainless steel counters. A small man with auburn hair stands next to an open roll up loading dock door, hands in his hair, cursing quietly. Next to him, a metal cart has fallen over and lost its load of large plastic milk crates.

“Billy! I didn’t know you were back already. Why didn’t you come in and get me? I would have helped you, silly.” Gary starts to pick up the plastic crates. “These for your uncle?”

Billy nods. “I didn’t want you to hurt your back again.” He bends to pick up the cart. 

“Here, allow me,” says Sherlock, scurrying to his side.

“Well, hello, who’s this?” Billy lifts his brows and turns to Gary.

“This is Sherlock. He’s new to the area and thinking of getting a Cavie. Sherlock, this is my clumsy partner, Billy Michaels.”

Billy smiles, showing prominent dimples. “Hi, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nods. “A pleasure.” He gestures to the floor. “I can get this, if you need to move your truck?”

Billy shakes his head. “Oh, no, there’s no truck. I got this all in my Honda.”

**-Voiceover-  
Auburn hair and vivid green eyes. I used to see that combination all the time back in England, but it’s not that common around here. Add in facial structure, deep dimples and, yes, attached earlobes, and I think I may know the name of the family that brought my new friends to the islands. I’m thinking, though, that Billy has yet to make the acquaintance of the family matriarch. **

XXXXX

Sherlock is home, in his cluttered but comfortable living room. He is seated on his sofa, slouched into the cushions, but still looks neat in his green dress shirt and polished tan chinos. His fingers are steepled under his chin as he stares, unseeing, into the distance.

**-Voiceover-  
I’m still not sure what I learned at the kennel yesterday. Why would a member of Mr. Hudson’s family tail his own wife? By all accounts, Mrs. Hudson lives the respectable life of a boring middle class lady. There is no whiff of scandal about her, none. Even her bridge playing is above reproach. Is this really about a dog?**

“Woo hoo!” Mrs. Hudson leans in through the doorway. “Everyone decent?”

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Was I expecting you?”

“Almost certainly not. I’m here to ask a favor. Will you watch Victor for me for a bit?” Victor comes barreling down at the stairs, panting and quivering with excitement. Mrs. Hudson descends at a more graceful pace.

A look of mild alarm comes over Sherlock’s face. “Watch him? Like…keep him with me and…be with him?”

“Exactly! I need to get my hair done before the show this weekend, and my usual kennel is booked up. He needs some exercise. All of my friends are busy and, well, I figured who better to care for him for a few hours?”

Sherlock is shaking his head. “Almost anyone, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Poppycock. Victor needs protecting, and you are a security professional, are you not?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“Lovely! Here’s his leash.” She hands him the bundled cord and immediately starts back up the stairs, throwing words behind her as she goes. “He prefers crunchy treats. He likes the beach at Kawela Bay, and they don’t mind dogs there. Don’t let him swim, the ocean makes him smell bad. Ta ta!” Mrs. Hudson is through the door and away.

Sherlock sighs, regarding the leash in his hand unhappily.

XXXXX

The red Ferrari pulls out of the Masters Estate driveway and, accelerating rapidly, turns onto the main road.

**-Voiceover-  
After dealing with Mrs. Hudson, I have a new appreciation for the forces of nature. God. She seems harmless, but then she strikes like a cobra. **

As the car speeds up the road, Victor’s head emerges from the passenger side window. His tongue is hanging out, and his expression is one of joy.

“Hey! Get back in the car!” Sherlock reaches blindly for the dog, his eyes still on the road ahead. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” 

Victor pulls back in, his tail wagging wildly. He circles in the seat a couple of times before popping back up onto the armrest and sticking his head back outside.

“Dog! Um, Victor! Get back in here! No! Bad dog!”

The dog falls back onto the seat, his hind end wriggling enthusiastically. He pants for a moment, before surging quickly up to lick Sherlock’s cheek.

“GOD!” Sherlock cries. “What the hell are you doing?” Victor wags a bit harder for a couple of seconds, before whirling back to the window. He sticks his nose back out with a single enthusiastic bark. Sherlock manages to grab his collar.

“Ha! Caught you, you menace!” He pulls the dog back into the car.

Victor pulls toward the window and whines. Sherlock holds him for a moment, releases his collar, and then, before the dog can react, raises the window from the controls on the middle console.

“No. No, she would kill me if anything happened to you. Plus, it’s probably against the law or something. Just, sit. SIT.”

Victor turns to face Sherlock and slowly sits, staring silently at his face with wide brown eyes. Sherlock glances over at him.

“Oh for god’s…stop. Stop that right now.”

Victor stares a bit longer.

“No. No. Really? You’re going to try to guilt trip me now?” 

Victor lies down, puts his chin on his front paws and, still looking sadly up at Sherlock, evinces a small sigh.

Sherlock looks down at him again, and quickly does a double take. 

“Oh my god. No. Really?”

Victor manages a sad half wag, his eyes still on Sherlock’s face.

“Oh, bloody hell. You’re worse than your owner is, you know?” Sherlock sighs deeply, and then pushes the console buttons again. As the window starts to lower, he grabs Victor’s collar. In a resigned tone, he says, “Go ahead, then.” Victor leaps up and immediately whips around to put his head back out of the window. Sherlock leans across, one hand on the steering wheel and the other firmly on Victor’s collar, as Victor’s ears flap in the breeze.

As the car speeds on, both appear to be smiling, though it could be a trick of the light.

XXXXX

Sherlock, shoes in hand, sleeves pushed back, and trousers carefully rolled up, is walking Victor on his leash down a long beach. It is a sunny day, but there are only a few people around, sunning or splashing in the shallow waters of the bay. Victor stops every few yards to sniff and wag. Sherlock stops with him every time, and watches him carefully as he explores.

An attractive woman in an orange bikini walks toward them. Sherlock takes no notice of her as she approaches. When she is ten yards away, she calls, “Hi! Pretty dog you’ve got there!”

Sherlock looks up, mildly startled. “What? Oh. Oh, right.” He looks at Victor, who is wagging but staying close. “Um, thank you.”

“Is he a special breed?” She walks closer, and Victor begins to wag.

“Um, yes. He’s a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.”

“Oh! I’ve never seen one before. He’s so sweet! Can I pet him?”

“Well, um, yes? I suppose so, if he’ll let you.”

The girl draws up beside them, drops to her knees in the sand. “Oh, come here, cutie! What’s your name?”

“His name is Victor, apparently.”

“Victor! Come here, Victor! Come on, Vickie!” The dog wriggles in front of her, panting and wagging and wriggling. “Oh, my gosh, he’s just adorable!”

Sherlock scowls down as the dog writhes in joy in front of the woman. “Well, he’s certainly a flirt.”

Victor lolls his tongue out the side, cocks his head, and then flops over on to his back.

“Oh! Do you want a belly rub, Vickie? Ooh, you cute little thing…don’t you get enough love at home?”

Sherlock snorts. “He gets plenty of love, believe me.”

The woman continues to pet Victor’s belly. “Oh, wow, he must really go over with the ladies.”

“Um. Excuse me?”

“Ooh, Vickie, is your daddy a stuffy old Englishman? Does he need you to help him meet girls?” 

“Wait, _Daddy_?”

She looks up at Sherlock, an amused smile on her face. “You must pull plenty of numbers, with his looks and your accent.”

Sherlock’s face moves quickly from disorientation, to shock, to distaste. “Oh! Oh, god, no! He’s not my dog. He belongs to a friend of my brother’s! I’ve only got him for a case!”

The woman lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “A case.”

“Yes, a case. I’m a detective.”

“Right. I’ve never heard that one before.”

“No! Look, it’s not a, what do you call it, line? Right, line. Really. I’m just watching this dog because the owner thinks someone is trying to steal him before the dog show this weekend.”

The woman cocks her head as she considers them both. “This really isn’t your dog? Because he’s a real babe magnet, dog like that. You could be landing the ladies left and right.”

Sherlock is staring at her. “Really?”

She smirks. “Really.” She gets up, brushes the sand from her knees, and bends for one last pat. “Well, Victor, nice to meet you. Your uncle isn’t very bright, but you sure are a sweetie.” She turns to face Sherlock. “You should borrow him more often, handsome. Your technique could use the help.” She shakes her head ruefully, and starts back off down the beach.

Sherlock continues to stare after her.

**-Voiceover-  
** **Mr. Hudson came home yesterday carnally rumpled and trailing sand. Mrs. Hudson said Victor spent the morning at the kennel. They gave him a bath she didn’t request. The ocean makes Victor smell bad. She saw Billy following her while she was running her errands.**  
**Victor doesn’t like Mr. Hudson.**

**Mr. Hudson is using Victor to meet women at the beach.**

**Oh, that _bastard_.**

XXXXX

Sherlock sits in the Ferrari across the street from the Cross Keys Kennel parking lot, hands clasped around a steaming paper cup of coffee. The streetlights are just starting to flicker off in the early morning light.

**-Voiceover-  
Mr. Hudson’s investment in the Cross Keys must have come with strings attached. Here, have your business, but in return, you’ll have to keep an eye on my wife while I’m using her dog to sleep around. God, that’s just a new viscosity of slime.**

**I should have asked Mrs. Hudson if she knows Billy, or if she knows that Billy is Frank’s--well, I’m guessing nephew by the level of familial appearance, though you can’t always be certain of these things. Anyway, I just couldn’t ask her. I don’t want to hurt her if I’m wrong. I mean, I’m not wrong, but. Well.**

**I’m never wrong.**

**Still, this time, I rather hope I’m wrong.**

The silver Honda pulls into the parking lot. Sherlock jumps from the car and runs across the street. Billy is just getting out of the car as Sherlock approaches.

“Good morning! Billy, isn’t it?”

“Augh!” Billy startles. “God, you surprised me. Oh, hello. Um, Stanford, isn’t it?”

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Right, sorry.” Billy throws the strap of his tote bag over his shoulder and starts to move toward the front door, flipping through a ring full of keys. “Well, we don’t open for an hour, Sherlock, and I need to see to the boarders…”

“Oh, you’re in a rush? I’m sorry to interrupt. Need help getting anything done…”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly…”

“Before you go help Frank Hudson?”

Billy freezes. His mouth hangs open in an expression of horror, and his hands start to visibly shake.

Sherlock tilts his head, raising a supercilious eyebrow. “Oh, come now, Billy. Did you really think no one would notice?”

Billy suddenly drops the keys and his bag, and desperately lunges forward to grasp Sherlock by the arms. “Oh, God, you have to believe me! I didn’t know about the drugs!” Billy buries his face in Sherlock’s chest and starts to sob. Sherlock stares down at the top of his head.

**-Voiceover-  
Oh, bloody _hell_. **

XXXXX

Billy is collapsed into the rolling office chair behind the desk of the kennel lobby, kneading a wad of facial tissues. Sherlock is leaning against the desk facing him, a very stern expression on his face.

Billy rubs his hand across his red, wet eyes. “…I mean, he’s my _uncle_ , right? And he helped us with this place, and it was great at first. I mean, he gave us the down payment and he co-signed the lease, and sent us some of his friends as clients. We couldn’t have done it without him. But then…”

“He asked you to follow Mrs. Hudson. Your _aunt_.”

Billy nods, miserably. “I’d never met her. I only knew Uncle Frank from a few family reunions from before I knew Gary. His offer came out of the blue. My mom called, and said Frank was looking for business opportunities, and wanted to have some family closer.”

“So you moved out here.”

“Yeah. But then he started asking me to do, you know, stuff. Bringing him Victor after he was dropped off, keeping an eye on Aunt Martha to make sure she didn’t catch him with the dog. That wasn’t so bad. I mean, it was bad, of course, but it wasn’t _illegal_. But then a few weeks ago, he started having me deliver, you know. Boxes. Envelopes. Said he couldn’t trust anyone who wasn’t family. And when I said I didn’t want to do it anymore, he started to, well, threaten me.” Tears begin to slip down Billy’s cheek. “He said he’d tell Gary.”

“Gary doesn’t know?”

Billy’s eyes open wide with fear. “Oh, God, no! No, he’d never forgive me. He _hates_ drugs. He used to tell me stories of the stuff he saw in Miami, how he’d see guys on cocaine in the bars and watch them just…”

“Yes, yes, I can imagine.” Sherlock has paled slightly, but he stands up straight and looks down at Billy with a look of determination. “Very well. If I can get you out of this, do you want me to?”

Billy’s face is streaked with tears, but he looks at Sherlock with hope in his eyes. “Oh my god, yes. Yes, I’ll do anything. Just…don’t make me tell Gary.”

Sherlock sighs deeply, and then nods once. “All right, then.”

**-Voiceover-  
At best, this is going to be complicated and painful. Fortunately, I know just the man to call for complicated and painful.**

XXXXX

The Ferrari pulls through the gates into the Masters Estate, and glides to a stop in front of the mansion. Mycroft Holmes steps out of the front door and waits, arms crossed, a frown on his face. Sherlock gets out of the car and slowly walks up to meet his brother.

Mycroft lifts an eyebrow. “Well, little brother? You said it was important. I cancelled a crucial meeting with the mayor for this.”

Sherlock steps around him and continues walking to the front door. “Your office. Tea. Biscuits. Maybe brandy.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Manners, Sherlock.” He starts to follow him to the door. “Oh, is it hurting your pride to have to ask me for help? No worries, little brother, no one has to know. For the cost of a small favor… ”

Sherlock stops suddenly in the doorway, and whirls around to face his brother, his face full of rage.

“Favor? _Favor_? You remember Mrs. Hudson? ‘Show up with a flashlight and humor an old lady?’ Well the _old lady’s_ husband is a bloody drug dealer whose hobby is using her beloved canine to hustle women into bed in his spare time. Did you know that? No? No. So shut the hell up, get your arse in the house, ring for tea, and help me figure out how to fix this without innocent bystanders getting hurt.”

Mycroft looks shocked. He searches Sherlock’s face for a moment, and then slowly nods. He gestures toward the hallway.

“After you, Detective,” he murmurs.

XXXXX

The Ferrari pulls up outside of Mrs. Hudson’s apartment. Mrs. Hudson is on the porch, pinching brown leaves off of her hydrangea. Victor is lying on the top stair, but jumps up and starts wagging happily when Sherlock gets out of the car.

“Oh, hello, Sherlock. You do get the good parking, don’t you. Must be living right.” She winks at him and goes back to her plant. “What’s the good word?”

“Mrs. Hudson. Is Frank home?"

Mrs. Hudson turns to face him. She takes in his serious expression and takes a deep breath. “Oh. You’ve figured out who’s after Victor.”

Sherlock nods, solemn. “Yes.”

Mrs. Hudson considers him closely. “Frank's not here, but from your expression, I suspect this might be a discussion better started in the light of day.” She gestures to the stoop. “Have a seat, Sherlock. Tell me what you need to tell me, and then we’ll go inside and have a cuppa.”

Sherlock hesitates, but then nods. “As you wish.”

They sit next to each other on the stairs. Victor jumps up onto Sherlock’s lap and immediately settles in. Mrs. Hudson straightens out her right leg for a brief stretch, then looks down at her knees. “Go ahead, then, dear.”

Sherlock draws a deep breath. “The man in the Honda was Billy, Gary’s partner.”

Mrs. Hudson’s frown deepens. “Gary, from the kennel Gary? I didn’t know he had a partner. But why was he following me? What does he want with Victor?” 

“It’s not exactly Victor he’s after...” Sherlock begins.

XXXXX

Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock are once again huddled around the stump table, teacups in front of them. The blinds are drawn. Sherlock is reaching over and holding her hand, speaking quietly. As he finishes, he draws nearer and gently kisses the top of her head. Victor is in her lap, and her hands are buried in his soft fur.

“Is this a service you offer all of your clients?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice is strained, but she speaks clearly, without hint of tears.

Sherlock chuckles. “A kiss? No, not at all. It’s only for people with perfect tea and adorable dogs.” He hesitates. “I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I don’t often have to give bad news to such nice people.”

Mrs. Hudson smiles and pats his knee. “It’s quite all right, you know. I knew he was no good for me, but, well, love does make one blind.” She sighs. “So what happens now?” 

“Mycroft has arranged to have Frank--removed from the Islands. He is willing to dig up evidence for prosecution if you want, but. Well. There would be a lot of publicity, and it might be difficult to prove you aren’t involved. He’s not sure he could keep Immigration out of the picture.” He looks at his hands. “Mycroft _can_ make sure he never bothers you again. You can get a divorce, or just pretend he never existed, or whatever you want. He’s…good at that sort of thing, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure. He’s quite terrifying. But you, you’re a dear, you know? I knew if Victor liked you, you were all right.”

Sherlock smiles. Victor lifts his heads and wags his tail at the mention of his name. 

“Victor hates Mycroft, you know.”

“Wait, really?”

“Oh, yes. Lifted his leg right on the corner of his desk. Thought Mycroft’s head would explode.”

Sherlock throws back his head and laughs. “Oh, Mrs. Hudson. I adore you.” She grins and they sit a moment longer. Victor finally lowers his head to go back to sleep.

“Any idea what you might want to do now?”

“A few, actually. I might go back to England. Did you know I own a building in central London? Lovely place. I’ve got a flat there, and two to let. Remember that, if you ever go back yourself.” 

“I will. I can’t afford much in the way of rent, though.”

“We’ll make a deal, dear. Don’t you worry.” Mrs. Hudson pats his leg again, and then shifts Victor over to his lap and stands. “But first things first. There’s a dog show tomorrow, and to quote a man of whom I’m quite fond, I’ve an ‘adorable’ dog to show in it. I’ve complimentary guest passes, care to join me?”

Sherlock rubs Victor’s ear. “I’m cheering for Victor, Mrs. Hudson, but I don’t think I’m strong enough for an entire show full of dogs. Or dog people, if you’ll forgive me.” He brightens. “Greg might like to go, though.”

“Oh! Do you think so? You know, I could give one to Molly, too, from the club? I think your Greg is quite taken with her.”

Sherlock leans back in surprise. “Who, Lestrade? Did he say something?”

“No, and neither did Molly. But you’re not the only one who sees things, dear.” She winks, and toasts him with her teacup.

XXXXX

It’s another spectacular sunset off the Masters Estate private beach, but Sherlock sits alone on the landing, staring into his scotch.

Mycroft approaches from behind. Sherlock doesn’t look up.

“Is it done, then?”

Mycroft stands behind the chair, looking over the beach to the sea beyond. “It is. He’s off to Florida in the morning. There are people there who will keep a weather eye on him.” He looks down at the back of Sherlock’s head. “He will act out again, you know.”

Sherlock looks out at the horizon. “Yes, of course. But Mrs. Hudson will be well out of it.”

“You were…kind to her.”

Sherlock snorts. “I think that could be argued.”

“You spared her from almost certain humiliation, and even possible detention. Those are not small things.”

Sherlock nods and looks back to his drink. “I suppose.”

Mycroft circles around to take a seat in the chair next to his brother, carefully not making eye contact. “Since I have you here, I’d like to discuss a matter of estate security with you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Of late, I’ve become somewhat concerned with the risk of trespassers. I believe it would be a simple matter for someone of dubious intent to enter the compound from the beach side.”

“Hmmm. Perhaps, if they were determined. Plenty of fence between here and there, though.”

“Still,” Mycroft persists. “We must do what he can to protect Mr. Masters’ assets. So I was thinking, what do you think about…dogs?”

Sherlock slants a sharp glance toward Mycroft, but his expression is otherwise carefully neutral. “Dogs? Like, guard dogs?”

Mycroft nods. “Just so. There’s an excellent training academy here on the Island. Several of my acquaintances have used them to great report. I think a couple of well trained canine guards would be a powerful dissuasion to the criminal element, don’t you?”

Sherlock looks back down, stifling a smile. “Perhaps. Would you want to oversee this project yourself?”

Mycroft lifts a supercilious brow. “Certainly not. Fieldwork is not my natural milieu. It would fall to you, as head of security for the estate.”

“I see.”

Both men sit motionlessly for an entire minute. Finally, Mycroft speaks.

“Of course, I would get to name them.”

**-Cue Credits-**

Next week on Sherlock, P.I.: A greatly feared enemy from the past comes to haunt Sherlock again. Can he be stopped? And at what cost?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for being a bit late with the update, but I just got off the overnight train from Edinburgh (birthplace of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle). This is being posted mere yards from Speedy's Cafe, which is hopping this morning.
> 
> Many, many thanks to 221bJen and EnduringChill for the quick beta. 
> 
> In case you are a dog person, I am aware that Cavalier King Charles Spaniels were not recognized by the AKC until 1995. They were already popular in England in the 80s, however.
> 
> A gentle reminder: if you remember Magnum, PI at all, you know it wasn't all sweetness and light. Expect a little drama next week, friends.
> 
> As ever, big squishy cuddles to Mazarin 221b for talking me into this.


	4. Hearts of Darkness and Light, Part 1 of 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Cambodia or Laos?"
> 
> "Hello. Wouldn’t you like to know _my_ name first?”
> 
> Sherlock shakes his head. “No need for introductions. You are Surgeon Lieutenant Commander John Watson of the Royal Marines."

It is late night at the Masters Estate guest house, and the sitting room is dim, save for the light cast by a single torchiere behind the sofa. Sherlock is sitting within the circle of light on his couch, a bottle of red wine and a half-filled glass atop a stack of books on the table before him. The soft sounds of a violin concerto play as he reads to himself from a large, leather-bound volume.

**-Voiceover-  
** **‘…herself. Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;  
** **And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:  
** **Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;  
** **And one incapable of her own distress,  
** **Or like a creative native and indued  
** **Unto that element: but long it could not be  
** **Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,  
** **Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay  
** **To muddy death.’**

**Shakespeare. No one else could write so tragic a breakdown; no one else could write so picturesque a drowning.**

Sherlock closes the book and places it on the sofa beside him. He rubs his face with both hands for a moment, and then reaches for the wineglass on the table. 

**-Voiceover continues-  
Most nights I can find comfort in the Bard’s language and imagery. Tonight, however, I did not choose wisely. “Hamlet” probably isn’t the play to reach for when you are already having nightmares about water and madmen.**

He quickly drains the glass and places it back on the table.

**-Voiceover continues, softly-  
God, I wish I could forget.**

He closes his eyes, and we are suddenly in a darkened room with a large swimming pool. There is a light under the surface of the water casting a faint glow, but the edges of the room are in shadow. A younger Sherlock enters the room, hair trimmed close, trim and confident in his khaki US Navy uniform. His posture is erect and alert, and his expression one of focus and caution. He turns around in a slow circle while he moves slowly toward the pool. 

“Well, here I am,” he says to the empty room. “Took me a while, but I think I’ve come to understand. Why don’t you come out, and we’ll talk?” His voice is persuasive. 

There is a squeal of a door opening, and Sherlock stops and turns to face the sound. A human figure steps in through the doorway and stands in the darkness next to the bleachers.

“Did you bring it?” A man’s rough voice, the sound bouncing back off the water.

Sherlock frowns. “Who’s there?”

After a moment of hesitation, the man walks slowly out of the shadows and toward Sherlock and the pool. He walks with a slight limp. There is the rasp of a throat being cleared before the man speaks again, this time with a recognizable English accent. “I said, did you bring it?”

The man steps into the light. He is a compact man, inches shorter than Sherlock, in the blue dress uniform of the Royal Navy, with the added red stripes of the medical branch. His hair is blonde and neatly combed and slicked back. His hands are tightly clasped at his sides, and his face is tense and angry.

He looks straight ahead. He does not look at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s face has drained of all color, and his expression is one of complete shock. His mouth moves for a moment before he is able to produce sound. “…John?”

The man still does not look at Sherlock. He speaks calmly, but with force. “Did. You. Bring. It.”

Sherlock stumbles a bit as he starts to move toward the man, but the man immediately gives a single, small shake of his head. Sherlock stops short, still yards away, and unconsciously starts to raise one hand toward the man. “No. No, John, of course not. That would be _treason_.”

The man still does not look at him, or move, but his eyes close with relief, and he takes a deep breath.

From the opposite corner of the room, another man’s voice breaks in with a high-pitched giggle. “Hee hee hee! Of course not, John. You know your boy better than that!” Another man, also compact, but with dark hair and eyes, wearing blue jeans, a white button down, and a Texas University ball cap, steps out of the shadows. “Sherlock here ain’t about to commit _treason_ , man, what are you thinking?” He stops to smack his gum a few times. “Of course, it’s a pity, really. Would have saved a lot of hassle. Show him what I mean, Johnny Boy.”

John pulls to full attention, and after a second of hesitation, starts to unbutton his dress top with one white-gloved hand. He moves slowly, but when done, carefully pulls apart the jacket flaps to reveal an elaborate set of red, black and white wires feeding into two fist-sized blocks of plastic explosives, all attached to John’s white undershirt with silver duct tape.

The small dark man gestures widely toward John, who is again motionless at attention. “Now, that’s a show waiting to happen!” He steps a few feet closer. “So. Tell me, Lieutenant Commander Holmes,” he says, suddenly very serious, “Shall we reconsider this notion of treason? Because I’m gonna let Johnny here go. Question is, will it be straight to heaven…” Here he pantomimes an explosive gesture with his hands. ”…Or straight back to your _bed_?”

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-  
It was a hot day at Cam Rahn Bay, which was nothing unusual. The light was bright, the humidity was high, the stupidity was rampant. It was a typical day at the office.**

**I was working through reports of a new chemical weapon being tested on civilians by Charlie. These reports were random and unverifiable, short bursts of static on otherwise smooth channels. My connections in the civilian population were telling the same tales as well. Most investigators discounted the voice of the people, but most of the investigators were idiots. All the people who were in a position to know were telling the same kinds of stories. At first I thought we were seeing a variant of Agent Orange, but it soon became clear that this was something new.**

Sherlock is sitting at a desk in a typical military office. He is staring at the wall in front of him, which holds a starburst pattern of reports, memos and photographs, overlaid with a web of twine. He is tapping a pen on the desk in front of him and talking to himself under his breath. 

“Excuse me, are you Lieutenant Commander Holmes?” A pleasant man’s voice with a marked British accent interrupts his reverie. He turns to find a compact blonde man in the camouflage uniform and green beret of a Royal Marine Commando standing behind him. The man is looking down at him with a polite smile, but as his eyes shift to the display on the wall, his expression changes to one of focused interest. As he registers a photograph of burns over the arm and shoulder of a young child, his eyes narrow, and his lips press together.

Sherlock leans back. “I am. Cambodia or Laos?”

The man quickly looks to Sherlock’s face again. “Um. Hello. Wouldn’t you like to know _my_ name first?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No need for introductions. You are Surgeon Lieutenant Commander John Watson of the Royal Marines, graduate of University of Edinburgh Medical School, an accomplished surgeon, or at least you were. You joined the Marines later in life than most doctors who do, and you took some grief from your family for the decision. Interesting. You’re an adrenaline addict, and are willing to take risks for your men, which has made you well loved. You’ve only recently been returned to active duty from a prolonged leave. You feel very fortunate to get a billet at the investigative unit, and are eager to make a good showing. You’ve been sent here to help us find who’s behind these weapons, which means British intelligence is aware and concerned, which is very intriguing. Please answer the question, Cambodia or Laos?”

The man is staring. “What the…?”

“You were wounded. In Cambodia or Laos?”

The man blinks. “Um, I’m sure you know, Lieutenant Commander, that the British government has declined all US requests for assistance or personnel in the Vietnam police action. We are only providing regional intelligence. There is no British military presence on the ground in any of the South East Asian countries.”

“Right.” 

The man stares for another long minute, and finally a grin steals across his face. “Cambodia.” He shakes his head. “How the hell did you…?

Sherlock shakes his head and turns back to the wall. “Later, Surgeon Lieutenant Commander. Drop your bags and take a look at these photos. I would be a fool not to exploit your medical expertise.”

XXXXX

Sherlock and John are sitting in the officers’ club on base. There are a few people scattered about at the tables, but they are the only two at the bar.

“So, how _did_ you guess all that? About me?”

Sherlock looks down at his scotch. “I never guess, Surgeon Lieutenant Commander.” 

“John.” 

“Sherlock.” 

John taps his bottle of beer against Sherlock’s glass. “Go on, then.” 

Sherlock draws in a deep breath and begins to speak quickly. “The name was easy, it’s there on your uniform. J. Watson. I saw “J O” on your otherwise obscured luggage tag. Statistically speaking, John was far and away the most likely choice, especially for an Englishman. There was a bit of a burr on the “R” in Commander…” 

“There was not.” 

Sherlock grins. “I assure you, there was. It’s mild, though, so you picked it up after childhood. You’d have had to be in Scotland for some time, likely years, to assimilate the accent. Where would an adult man have reason to spend that much time in Scotland? School. In your case, medical school. Edinburgh was the most reasonable choice, as it has an excellent reputation for turning out trauma docs.” 

“All right, go on.” 

“Your skill is written in your hands.” 

John spreads his hands out on the bar. 

“You keep your hands like a surgeon, nails trimmed short and blunt, and scrupulously clean. More precisely, the hair on the back of your hands and arms is finer than you’d expect, which suggests that you frequently abrade your hands and arms up to your elbows. That’s surgical scrubbing right there; I can pick the surgeons out of a group of physicians every time.” 

“You said I was good.” 

“You still have a job. If you were rubbish, they’d have been glad to show you the door after your injury. The Commonwealth, apparently, is grateful.” 

John nods. “So how’d you know I went into the military late? I did six years of A &E trauma before I joined. I waited for my mother to die, frankly. My sister will never forgive me.” 

Sherlock nods. “You are, with apologies, only a Lieutenant Commander. At your age, especially with battle experience and now an injury in the line of duty, you should be a full Commander at least, and probably on desk duty or teaching." 

“Maybe I like being in the field.” 

Sherlock nods at the green beret. “Obviously, but you should still have the rank.” 

“All right, fine. And that’s the adrenaline too, I suppose?” 

"I see a green beret, not dolphins. You could have gone subs, but you like _danger_. You’re a bloody Commando.” 

John nods. “All true. So, about taking risks…” 

“When you’re not conscious of it, your shoulder curls like you were shot from the back. The man I’m drinking with wouldn’t run from a fight. You were bent over one of your men, who had been wounded. It was sniper fire. And of course, with that kind of dedication, your men love you.” 

John straightens in his chair, and sucks in a deep breath. Sherlock winces. “Too much?” 

John shakes his head slowly. “No. No, that…was…extraordinary.” 

Sherlock blinks. “Really?” 

“You know it was. That was absolutely extraordinary.” 

Sherlock sits back in his chair, and a shy smile crosses his face. “That’s not what most people say.” 

“What do most people say?” 

“Most soldiers tell me to fuck right off.” 

John laughs. “Yeah, well, their loss.” 

Sherlock beams. “Another?” He motions the bartender over. 

John nods. “You did get one thing wrong, though.” 

“There’s always something. What was it?” 

“I am eager to help in this investigation, that part was correct. How did you…?” 

“Came right to the office without shaving or dropping your bag. It was a long trip, most people would have stopped by quarters first.” 

“Right, makes sense. But, it wasn’t luck that got me this billet. My old Commander felt bad about my injury, and turns out he knows some people.” 

Sherlock lifts his eyebrows. “Such as?” 

“Your brother.” 

Sherlock flinches. “Oh, bloody hell." 

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-  
** **At this time, Mycroft was in London, working on South East Asian policy in an unofficial advisory capacity for MI5. I strongly suspected he was mostly doing it to keep his eye on me, especially after my, well, troubles. I suppose I couldn’t blame him, though I certainly tried.**

**I’d been off the cocaine for eight months at this point. The beauty of being a high functioning addict is that you can keep doing your job, even as you’re completely melting down. If Lestrade had taken me to medical the night he found me in the gutter, instead of calling my brother, I’d have been court martialed, plain and simple. As it was, I still hadn’t been able to uncover all the strings that had been pulled to get me back into my position without official censure. I knew I was being monitored, but I couldn’t always tell by whom.**

**John’s medical expertise would aid the investigation; that was certain. I just didn’t know yet if I could trust him.**

John, Sherlock, Greg Lestrade, and two junior officers in US Navy uniforms are sitting around a conference table in a small, bland meeting room. One wall holds a black chalkboard with a list of several names written on it. As the men sit and chat amongst themselves, a younger Molly Hooper comes through the door. She is dressed in a standard khaki Naval uniform, with her hair in a messy bun. There is a pen absently shoved behind one ear. She is juggling several files, a large tote bag, and a cardboard coffee cup.

“Oh! Apologies, gentlemen. I didn’t mean to hold you up.”

“Commander Hooper?” Sherlock asks. Molly nods. “Excellent. Thank you for joining us.” He stands and moves to the board. “Commander Hooper is one of the medical examiners here on base, and she’s been assigned to review the deceased victims and help us figure out exactly what it is we’re dealing with. Commander, I’m Sherlock Holmes. This is my teammate, Lieutenant Commander Greg Lestrade.”

“The pilot?” Molly asks.

Greg smiles and ducks his head. “The same, ma’am. A pleasure.”

Sherlock continues. “This is Surgeon Lieutenant Commander Watson, on special assignment from the Royal Navy, and these are Lieutenants Wiggins and Wainwright, who are going to help us out. Now, I sent you the files. Did you have a chance to review the cases?”

“I did, yes. These are very unusual burns. I’ve never seen anything like them before. The chemicals seem to be designed to act in two phases. When the chemical first hits the skin, it burrows deeply into the dermis, almost like a drill. But then after a few seconds, it spreads out into a wider pattern. The skin effectively burns from the inside out. It’s…quite awful, really.”

“Jesus!” Wiggins says, looking shocked. “Oh, beg your pardon, sirs, ma’am.” 

John nods and grimaces. “Quite understandable, Lieutenant.”

Sherlock stands and moves to the board. “Good work, Commander. We’ll keep you in the loop. Now then, switching focus. Lieutenant Commander Watson and I have compiled a list of the individuals that we feel have the resources to design and begin to produce a weapon of this type. We’ll need to start compiling research on these men. One is a chemistry professor at Imperial College in London. John, you can start pulling information together there. Greg and I can start working on the two civilians in America.”

“I’m on patrol for the next seventy-two hours,” Greg says. “I’ll do what I can to help on the case, but you’ll have to get started without me.”

John gestures at the board with his chin. “Isn’t Klinger a big time drug dealer? He does a lot of smuggling to the UK, too.”

“Hmmm, among other things, yes. He is quite diversified in his activities.”

“Maybe I should do the looking into him.” John doesn’t look at Sherlock, but focuses resolutely on the board.

Sherlock considers him for a long moment. “If you like, that would be fine.” He swallows hard before continuing to speak. “These two are contractors, and they are in-country, so Wiggins and Wainwright, you can start with their contracts and business data.”

“Yes, sir. We’ve got the easy bit,” says Wiggins, and he points to a name on the board. “Everyone knows this guy. He’s at the clubs every night, buys everyone drinks. He throws _great_ parties. He’s very generous with the, um, local ladies, excuse me, Commander Hooper. He’s quite a character.” Wiggins nods. “Terrible card player, though. Loses all the time.”

“Oh, yeah! I know that guy,” Greg says. “He sponsored the poker tournament.”

Sherlock nods thoughtfully. “I’ve heard the name. Well, seems like he’s a good place to start, then, Wiggins. Go get me the truth about Jim Moriarty.”

XXXXX

John is in his quarters, in his boxers and undershirt, when there’s a loud pounding on the door. He peeks through the window and, with an expression of mild surprise, opens the door to Sherlock, who is obviously furious.

“What. The fuck. Was _that_?” Sherlock asks, teeth clenched.

“Sorry, what?” John asks.

Sherlock storms into the room. “You. Calling me out with that dealer. What the hell were you _doing_?” 

“Protecting the investigation,” John snaps. “Did you think I didn’t know about your problem?”

“No, I _assumed_ you knew. I figured Mycroft made _sure_ you knew. I just didn’t expect you to throw it in my face in the middle of a bloody briefing? Have you not heard of discretion?”

“I was discreet! I didn’t refer to your history! The only one who would have known was Lestrade.”

“Oh, no, you didn’t have to spell it out, did you? It was perfectly obvious. I didn’t hear you offering to investigate the arms dealer, did I? Are you even aware of what my job here really is?” Sherlock pushes a chair out of the way to begin pacing. “I investigate _everything_. Anything that might affect the Navy. Anything that might affect civilians. Anything that might affect the _planet_. I mean, what do you think happens in this hellhole?” He gestures wildly. “Do you know how much heroin goes through the Bay everyday? How much cocaine? Do you think I can just step around those cases? I work with dealers directly every day, John. Every damn day. And just so we are clear, I. Am. Clean.” Sherlock stops, nearly panting.

John stares at Sherlock for several long moments, eyes wide and face flushed, but when he speaks, his voice is calm. “You’re right. I apologize.”

Sherlock blinks, taken aback. “Oh.”

John shakes his head, as if disappointed. “I should have known that someone with your level of success had himself under control. Your record is the strongest of any investigator out there. Your brother just…got into my head, I guess. I am truly sorry.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Well. That’s…fine. Um, thank you? Thank you.” He starts to move to the door. “I’ll just…go, then.”

“Sherlock. Have you had dinner?” 

Sherlock turns to answer, and frowns, taking John in fully for the first time. “You’re not wearing trousers.”

John nods. “Yes, I know.”

Sherlock continues to frown as he looks John up and down. “I didn’t notice. I should have noticed.”

“Yeah, well, you were upset.”

“I wasn’t _upset_ , I was just…”

“Mad as hell, Sherlock, and rightly so. Let me make it up to you. I’ll buy you dinner.”

Sherlock is still frowning, still staring hard. “Dinner?”

“Yes, dinner. A meal best consumed with good company. Aids the digestion. Feeds the soul. All good things. I’ll…just get dressed, then. OK?”

Sherlock’s eyes fly to John’s face. “Oh, right. Um, I’ll just wait outside. Right.” He turns toward the door, a slight flush appearing on his cheeks.

“Be right out,” John says.

Outside, Sherlock leans against the door, and rubs his hand down his face.

**-Voiceover-  
Oh God, he’s fit. He’s well fit.**

**Control. Under control. Stay under control.**

**Shit.**

XXXXX

Sherlock and John are sitting in a small local restaurant. John looks around at the decor with interest, while Sherlock and the Vietnamese proprietor have a lively conversation in French. The chat concludes with warm smiles, and the owner pats Sherlock on the arm as he leaves to go to the kitchen.

“You know him.”

“That wasn’t a question.” Sherlock takes a sip of water.

John smiles. “No.”

Sherlock grins. “I know most of the local business owners. They know more about what’s going on than any intelligence agent. Bao, there, has over forty cousins. He hears all the gossip.”

“He seems to like you.”

Sherlock nods. “I suppose. As much as you can like an Imperialist invader, at any rate.” He looks thoughtful. “He knows I respect him and his place in the community. I bring him a lot of business.” He shrugs. “I helped him hang some shelves once.”

“So what were you talking about?”

“Moriarty.” Sherlock leans back in his chair. “He’s met him.”

“Really. What did he say?”

“Not much. He says the local criminals are afraid of him.”

“Criminals?”

“You know, the small time guys. Bookmaking, petty theft, money laundering. He says they won’t talk about him at all, and usually those guys have no discretion whatsoever.” Sherlock grins. “Bless them. The more they talk, the easier my job is.”

“So what do you make of it?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Not sure. Need more data.”

John leans back in his chair and considers Sherlock thoughtfully. “You’re good at this, you know? The whole investigating…” He waves his hands. “…lark. You see things other people don’t.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Yes,” he says simply. “It doesn’t seem that mysterious to me. My brother is like this too, except with more of a…”

“Filter?”

Sherlock grins. “That too. I was thinking ‘purpose.’ He directs his observations into action, whereas I see things just because they’re there. It’s why he’s behind a desk, and I’m in the jungle. He’s applied science, I’m pure science.”

John snorts. “Right. Pure.”

“Unbiased.”

“Mmmm hmmm.”

“Honest.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Angelic.” Sherlock grins widely.

John smiles back. “How did you end up with the Yanks? You might not realize it, but your native country also has a serviceable navy with some reasonable successes to its name.”

Sherlock nods, putting on a serious expression. “Yes. I suppose that’s true. Or so I’ve _heard_.” He grins again. “I wanted to study cryptography, and two of the best cryptographers were on faculty at Annapolis. My father had been an ambassador, and we had joint US-UK citizenship, so I was eligible to apply.” He cocked his head. “The congressional representatives of our state were disinclined to nominate a “friggin’ Limey,” as one so memorably put it. So one day, I caught a train to DC and took the White House tour. I went back to my hotel, wrote an analysis of the truly abysmal security I observed on my visit, and sent it along with a pleasant letter to the Vice President.”

John raises his eyebrows. “The Vice President. Right.”

“Well, _everyone_ writes to the President. I wanted to stand out a bit.”

“Of course. Well, go on. What happened?”

“What happened was four days later, I got a visit from two very serious gentlemen from the FBI, and one from the Secret Service. They took me in and, quote, ‘interviewed’ me for six hours.”

John leans back in shock. “You were interrogated by the FBI. Wow. How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Jesus.”

Sherlock nods. “They were finally forced to concede that I was just a kid who noticed things. My father picked me up. He wasn’t happy.”

“Do tell. I’d be pissed off too. You were a kid, damn it.”

“You misunderstand. He was angry with me. Said it was unseemly to go outside proper channels in these sorts of matters.”

John is staring. “Well, I guess I’m beginning to understand your brother a little better.”

“Indeed. Anyway, three days later I got word that I was being nominated to the Academy. The VP sent a note that just said, “Better with us than against us.”

“And what did your dad say?”

“He just shook his head and said, ‘Don’t embarrass us.’ I’m still not certain if he meant the family or the Commonwealth.”

John grins. “Perhaps both.”

“More likely he didn’t distinguish the two.”

The proprietor brings the first course to the table, and the men start to eat with good appetite.

John chews thoughtfully. “So what else do you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“For fun. What do you do when you’re not working?”

“I’m always working.”

John shakes his head. “No, I mean, what do you do for fun. Read novels? Follow rugby? Gourmet cooking?”

Sherlock looks at him, bemused. “I’m always working, John. I walk around and talk to locals. I read all the intelligence reports I can get my hands on. I go walk around the docks. Sometimes I’ll go out to the countryside and look at the soil composition and texture in different areas. I study the local plants and insects. There are so many ways to die here by accident, John. It’s fascinating.”

John is smiling. “No hobbies?”

“I do go running everyday, but I use that time to think through cases.”

“So…no girlfriend, then?”

Sherlock flinches, as if surprised by the question. John just lifts an interested eyebrow and takes another bite.

“Um. No, nothing like that.” Sherlock swallows and looks down at the table. He considers his plate for a long moment. Finally he clears his throat and begins to speak cautiously. “Girlfriends are…not really my area.”

John leans back, surprised. “Oh, I see.” He looks away for a moment. “Um. Well.”

Sherlock shakes his head quickly, mild panic in his eyes. “Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have…it’s not what you’re thinking, it’s just that…”

“Sherlock, it’s fine.”

Sherlock’s eyes dart to John’s face, but John just nods and smiles reassuringly. 

“It’s all fine,” he says, with conviction. “In fact, it’s…good.”

After a moment, Sherlock takes a deep breath and nods. “Thank you,” he says. He continues to watch closely, his own meal abandoned, as John returns to his dinner. 

They order coffee. John is reaching for his wallet when he looks through the window and frowns. “Hey, isn’t that Wiggins? He looks… upset. Oh, he’s coming in.”

Wiggins bursts through the glass door of the restaurant. His uniform shirt is untucked and his hair uncombed, and there is a sheen of perspiration on his brow. He darts directly to their table. “Oh, thank _God_. I hoped I’d find you here, sirs.” He stops to catch his breath before continuing. “It’s Wainwright, sirs. He’s dead.”

XXXXX

Sherlock and John charge into the overly bright white room that serves as the base’s morgue. Molly Hooper is there, masked, gloved, and gowned, bent over a body on a stainless steel gurney. A white sheet is folded over the corpse from the hips down. Molly is speaking into a microphone suspended over the table.

“…male, twenty years of age, surgical scar approximately three centimeters in length, running from approximately two centimeters above the anterior superior iliac spine and continuing to McBurney’s point, consistent with the victim’s history of childhood appendectomy. No cutaneous bruising visible along ventral surface of body. Single gunshot wound in…”

“Commander Hooper,” Sherlock says, quietly.

She looks up at the two of them. “Oh, hello. That was quick. Let me…” She slides the mask down to her chin, and switches off the recorder above her head. As she steps around the table, she starts snapping off her gloves. “Okay, first things first. If we are meeting late at night over a dead body, my name is Molly. Got that?”

Sherlock quirks a half smile. “Yes, ma’am. Molly. Sherlock.”

Her eyes move to John, who has been unable to look away from the body. “Um. John. Right.” He moves closer, stopping two feet away. “He was only twenty? God,” he says, sadly.

“It’s a young man’s war, John,” Sherlock says coolly, stepping around him. “This was Wainwright’s second tour. Molly, what do you reckon?”

She points soundlessly to a box of gloves on the Mayo stand next to the table. “Single gunshot wound, right into the heart. I haven’t cut him yet…oh. Sorry. Um, I haven’t cracked...oh, that’s worse, isn’t it?”

“It’s fine,” John interposes. “I’m a doctor, and I’m guessing this isn’t Sherlock’s first corpse.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock murmurs absently, already focused on the body. 

“All right. Sorry. Well, it’s a clean shot, and I don’t see an angle to the entry, though I won’t know for sure until, you know. He wasn’t manhandled or restrained prior to the, um, event. There’s not much else from the outside so far.“

“So, someone walked up to him and just, what, shot him? Was it someone he knew? Wait, don’t touch. Is it okay that he’s touching?” 

Molly smiles. “His reputation precedes him, John.”

Sherlock moves around to stand at the head of the table. He bends to maybe six inches away from the face of the corpse, peering closely. “Molly, there’s some blood at the base of his eyelashes.”

“Wait, what?” Molly scurries back around to stand next to him, “Where?”

“There, see? It’s mostly been rinsed away, but there…those are flakes of blood.”

“Huh.” Molly takes a set of hemostats from the Mayo stand and leans back over the body. “Let me…oh.” She stands up straight. “Oh, my god. That’s…” She trails off.

“What?” John asks, starting to move closer.

“His eyes are missing, John, “ Sherlock says, standing straight. “They shot him, and then they took his eyes.”

“God! What, like some kind of…organ harvest or something?”

“That’s a good thought, but no. Take a look. That isn’t surgical precision. They cleaned it up, so they wanted to make us work to see it. No. That’s a message.”

“A message? To us? From whom?”

Sherlock steps away from the table, pulling off his gloves. “They took his eyes. Someone didn’t like where he was looking.” He rubs a hand down his face. “It’s a warning.”

“Bloody _hell_ ,” John murmurs. “So what now?”

“Now we find Wiggins, and find out what the hell Wainwright saw.”

XXXXX

The sun is just rising when John and Sherlock get back to the office.

**-Voiceover-  
There is no better way to upset a serviceman than to kill one of his comrades. Murdering Wainwright was an incredibly aggressive act. Mutilating him? Well. If whoever did this meant to warn us off, he picked the wrong way to go about it. The thing is, they have to know that, and that’s what worries me. I sense a grander purpose here, but I don’t know what it is. Someone has already taken my pawn, and I can’t even see the damn board.**

John drops several files on the desk next to Sherlock’s, and stretches widely. Sherlock pointedly looks away.

“Hear from Wiggins, then?” John’s voice is scratchy, worn from too much talking and no sleep. 

“Yes. I called from the morgue. He’s with his girlfriend. He offered to come back in right away, but I told him to come in at ten.” Sherlock starts flipping through the mail on his desk.

John blinks. “Really?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Dunno. Only I’d think you’d be eager to get back to work.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Wainwright was Wiggins’ friend. They served together for several months. Billy needed comfort. He needed…to feel _alive_ , as they say. It’s difficult to process these things when you’re young. He needs to get his feet back under him. The case can wait a couple of hours.”

“Well, that’s very mature of you. And thoughtful, really.” John cocks his head. “How about you? You didn’t seem that upset at the morgue.”

Sherlock turns to consider him. “Wainwright was a good kid, John. But if I fall apart everyone someone around me dies, nothing gets done. If I’d been caught up in _feelings_ last night, I might have missed the eyes. The eyes were the point. The eyes were why he died. I _saw_ it.”

“Someone else would have seen it, eventually. Molly would have seen it.”

“Probably, but how much later? Now we can focus on what matters. Now we know they’re aware of us. We’re a bit ahead of where we might otherwise be, because I’m…”

“A machine?”

Sherlock blinks. “In control.” He sinks into his desk chair. “I’m not unaffected by these things, John. But when I let myself feel them, I…get into trouble. And I don’t have the best history of handling that well.”

John’s face clears. “Ah. I see.”

Sherlock leans his elbows on his desk, and puts his head in his hands. “Do you?” he asks, quietly. 

John silently walks up behind him. He hesitates for a moment, but then reaches out to rest his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock freezes in surprise. 

John starts gently kneading Sherlock’s shoulders. “I didn’t mean I think you’re a machine,” he whispers. “I understand why you hold back. But you can’t carry everything around inside, Sherlock. That’s not healthy either.”

Sherlock sighs.

“God, you’re tense,” John murmurs, drawing up a bit closer to the chair. He works Sherlock’s shoulders a minute longer, and then slowly draws his hands up the back of Sherlock’s neck into his thick, dark hair. He tugs once, and then starts massaging Sherlock’s scalp.

Sherlock slowly straightens up. His eyes are closed, and he is biting his lower lip.

“That’s it. Just relax for a bit, Sherlock.”

A small moan escapes from Sherlock’s lips. His eyes pop open suddenly with shock, and he starts to lean away. John’s hands tighten in his hair. “Don’t,” John says quietly. “Just, don’t.”

“John, I…we shouldn’t…”

John slides his hands back to Sherlock’s shoulders, and then slowly down across his chest. He pulls Sherlock back gently into a loose embrace. Sherlock resists for a brief moment, but finally sinks back. He leans his head back against John’s chest, and again closes his eyes. John is looking down at the top of his head with a tender expression.

“It’s just a hug, Sherlock,” John says softly. “There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Just _relax_.”

They stay in the embrace for an entire minute, at ease and unmoving. Finally, Sherlock slowly raises a hand to rest gently on John’s crossed wrists. “I don’t remember the last time someone touched me,” Sherlock murmurs.

John’s smile turns a bit sad. He leans down to gently press a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. “That is a tragedy,” he whispers. 

Sherlock sighs, and starts to run his hand slowly up John’s arm.

The telephone rings loudly into the silence. They both startle and pull away.

XXXXX

Sherlock and John are walking up the path to Bao’s restaurant. The morning light is brighter, but it is quiet and there is no sign of anyone else around. Sherlock knocks twice on the door. The shade on the window slides briefly to one side. We hear the slides and clinks of multiple locks, and the door cracks open.

“Quickly, quickly!” A voice with a Vietnamese accent speaks quietly, but with urgency. The two men slip inside.

“Bao. We came as soon as we could. What is it?” Sherlock walks quickly up to the restaurateur, who is pale and agitated. 

“Big trouble for you. For your team. Big trouble. Need to tell you. Come to the back. Tea and talking there.”

Sherlock and John exchange a quick glance, before Sherlock gestures for John to go after Bao. He follows close behind.

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-**  
 **Bao told us he had gotten an early morning wake-up call, in the form of two panicked nephews crashing through his kitchen door. I knew these boys; they were petty thieves and sneaks for hire, but had never done anything seriously illegal. They were loitering on the street yesterday afternoon when a man came by with an offer of work. They didn’t know him, but the money sounded good and the man offered transport to and from the job. In the end, they accepted the offer.**

**They were waiting in an alley waiting for their signal when they heard a single gunshot. They told Bao they had wanted to run, but the man appeared immediately and ordered them to come inside the building. They followed him into what turned out to be an abandoned restaurant, to find the still body of an American soldier laid out on a counter in the kitchen. The man told them to start cleaning up the blood while he finished a “little project.” Then he pulled a jackknife from his pocket, and turned to the body.**

**Eventually the man ordered them to carry the corpse out to his waiting truck. One boy had nearly fainted, and the other started crying, but they were too frightened not to comply. Once they were finished, the man had handed them twice the agreed upon fee. Then he told them, in a pleasant voice, that if they said anything to anyone about what they had seen or done, they would be next, and he wouldn’t stop at taking the eyes.**

**They declined the ride home. It was almost certainly the right decision.**

“Did they say what the man looked like?” John asks.

Bao nods. “Not big. Dark hair, dark eyes. Soft voice. Talked funny, like in a horse movie.”

“Horse movie? You mean, like a Western?”

Bao nods again. “Randolph Scott.”

John snorts a laugh, but Sherlock is considering Bao closely. “There’s something else,” he says flatly.

Bao nods, hesitant. “There was somebody else, in next room. Man went and talked while boys cleaned. They heard.”

Sherlock nods, unsurprised. “He had help. Of course. Did they get a look at the man?”

Bao frowns. “No. Did not try, too scared. But it was not man. Woman’s voice.”

John leans back in surprise, but Sherlock persists. “Bao. This is important. Did they see the gun?”

“No. No gun. Just blood. Man put on gloves before eyes, boys said was all clean.”

“He wasn’t the shooter,” Sherlock breathes. “He had a gunman. A gun…woman.” He stands and puts down his cup. “Bao, thank you. Are the boys all right?”

Bao nods shortly. “OK. Scared. Will hide for a while.” He smiles weakly. “Might have scared hell out of them. Asked to go to church.”

Sherlock nods absently. “Good plan. We’ll be going. Be careful, Bao.”

Bao flashes a toothless grin and tips his head toward a well-polished decorative broadsword hanging on the wall. “Always careful, Sherlock.”

Sherlock and John leave the restaurant, and stop on the walkway outside. “What's next?” John asks.

Sherlock grins widely. “We get some breakfast. We grab showers and change our kit. We talk to Wiggins. And then, Surgeon Lieutenant Commander, I believe it is time for us to make the personal acquaintance of one Mr. James Moriarty, late of Dallas, Texas.”

XXXXX

John walks into the office, freshly shaven and with wet hair, carrying a paper cup of coffee in one hand and a box of donuts in the other. Wiggins is seated next to Sherlock at his desk, and the two are shuffling through some papers.

“Ah, John, there you are.” Sherlock’s eyes flick up to John’s smooth jaw and chin, and then quickly back down. “Sorry we didn’t wait.”

John frowns. “Did you eat?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. Too much to do. There’s fresh coffee though, and _mmmph_!” John shoves a donut into his mouth as he speaks.

“Have some sugar, there’s a good lad.” John’s eyes narrow. “Swallow it, Holmes. You can’t run on coffee.”

Sherlock swallows. “Donuts are bad for you,” he says around a mouthful.

“Donuts are better than nothing. You haven’t slept, you need energy. Wiggins, what do you have?”

Wiggins is staring, wide-eyed, at the both of them.

“ _Wiggins_.”

“Oh, right, sir. Sorry, sir. Only it's funny…”

“What’s funny?”

“It’s just funny to see Lieutenant Commander Holmes take orders, is all, sir.”

Sherlock scowls and brushes sugar from his mouth. “Get on with it, Wiggins.”

“Yes, sir. I ended up coming in a bit early to go through Wainwright’s notes. I thought it made sense to see where he had left off.”

“Very good. And?”

“He had been collecting shipping manifests from Moriarty’s companies.”

John leaned back. “All right. Can someone tell me what Moriarty does, anyway? I just know he’s a consultant of some sort. What does that even mean?”

Sherlock nods. “It’s a relatively new development in the U.S. military. Basically, a consultant is a private sector businessman who has convinced someone in power that he can do something the military already does for less money. It’s a great scam. Anyone can do anything cheaper than the military. They can charge half of what the same military effort would cost and still make a fortune.”

“I’m assuming that’s not the official definition. Not a fan, then?”

Sherlock frowns. “It’s an easy way for civilian personnel to get access to military infrastructure and even personnel without much oversight. As long as they meet the terms of their contracts, people tend to look the other way. I’ve found drug smugglers, arms dealers, and even one pimp operating under the ‘private consultant’ umbrella. These people have access to intelligence, bases, and materiel, and can’t be disciplined or even monitored, since they’ve usually taken the precaution of purchasing a few representatives, or maybe even a senator, to protect their interests.” He shakes his head disapprovingly. “They’re talking about hiring private companies to provide security for diplomats and officials, and those men will be armed. They’ll probably have better weapons than the army. It’s going to be real trouble someday.” 

“So Moriarty provides…”

Wiggins speaks up. “Well, sir, he’s extremely diversified, and that makes it hard to know everything he does. He has several companies on the ground here, and they do all kinds of things. He has a division that uses computers to direct shipments of weapons to bases and hot zones. Another produces MREs for soldiers in the field. There’s some maintenance support, you know, cleaning products and personnel for the bases and stuff? He has one group that does offsite data entry, where people sit in an office and copy records over to computers. He does some engine maintenance on fleet automobiles, engines and stuff. I haven’t found any direct arms supply, or in-country personnel work, but, man.” Wiggins shrugs. “It’s all random. He’s into everything. He has offices at every port and every base in South East Asia. And he’s here himself, which is rare. Most of these guys are pretty hands off on the ground.”

John tilts his head. “That’s…interesting, actually. Why is he here?”

Wiggins smiles. “He tells folks something about not trusting other bulls in the field with his heifers, or something.”

“God.” Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“What?” John’s eyes twinkle. “Can’t accept a man with some snap in his garters?”

“No. Stop.”

“This ain’t his first rodeo, Sherlock.”

“Enough.”

“You don’t get that? Were you raised in a barn?”

“I’m begging you. Stop.”

“Wiggins started it. Don’t hang the wrong horse thief.”

“Hey!” Wiggins chuckles. “Leave me out of this, sirs. I don’t need to draw kitchen duty over this.” He starts giggling. “I’d just as soon bite a bug.”

Wiggins and John are laughing openly now. Sherlock pulls himself up to his full height and regards them imperiously.

“You are both insane.”

John wipes his eyes. “Yes, yes we are. We’re both…a few pickles shy of a barrel.”

Both men break out laughing again. Sherlock throws up his hands and stalks away, but there is a smile playing on his lips.

XXXXX

A plain beige sedan drives toward the gate, headed off base. Sherlock is driving, and John is in the passenger seat, sipping from a paper cup of coffee. They approach the guard station, and the guard raises a hand in recognition and waves them through.

“Are you ready to do this?” John asks. “I’m not sure I know what I want to know from Moriarty. At least not yet.”

“I think we should meet him, at least. It doesn’t have to be a formal interrogation,” Sherlock replies. “I find it just helps to clear the tension, ends all that cloak and dagger playacting. And sometimes I can find something that helps steer us in the right direction. You’d be amazed what people leave out on their desks.”

John is looking out the passenger side window. Sherlock sneaks a glance at his face. “John? Is there something wrong?”

John nods, not looking away from the window. “Just thinking about, well, tension. Look, Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock looks surprised. “Sorry? For what?” 

“For…well, making a move on you back there. That was unprofessional of me. I apologize.”

“Oh.” Sherlock bites his lip. “You’re sorry about that.”

John finally glances Sherlock’s way. “Well, I’m not _sorry_. I’m just sorry. Does that make sense?”

“In no way whatsoever.”

John chuffs a laugh, but then sighs. “Look. I’m…I just…You’re so…I know I shouldn’t…”

Sherlock breaks in. “This is excruciating. May I?”

John grins. “By all means.”

“You’re attracted to me. You don’t usually date men, in fact your experience in that arena is quite limited, but you still…wish to explore something with me. Something, um, physical. Is that…fair?”

John nods, a faint blush forming on his cheeks. “Yes. Yes, it is. Direct, but fair.”

“All right, then.”

They drive along. After a minute, John asks, “And how about you?”

“What about me?”

John rolls his eyes. “Are you attracted to me?”

“Oh, God, yes!” Sherlock exclaims. “I’d thought that was obvious.”

“No, it wasn’t, but that’s…good. OK.” John swallows a smile, and takes a drink of his coffee.

“John.” Sherlock shakes his head. “I got an erection, John. When you touched me. Do pay attention.”

John gasps in surprise, nearly choking on his coffee. “God!” He says, coughing, eyes watering. “I’m all right. Damn,” he says, starting to laugh. “I’m sorry I missed that.”

“Well, I’m willing to bet you’ll get another opportunity.”

“I hope so, “ John grins. “Point it out to me next time, won’t you?”

Sherlock releases a very put-upon sigh, his eyes dancing. “Very well, but I trust I won’t have to do _all_ the work, will I?”

John looks around cautiously, and then leans across to place his mouth right next to Sherlock’s ear. He places a gentle kiss to the corner of his jaw, and breathes out softly against his skin. “I promise, you won’t. Count on that,” he whispers. He gently noses at Sherlock’s earlobe for a few more seconds before leaning slowly back into his seat.

Sherlock gasps softly. “Bloody hell,” he whispers. He looks around them quickly, and then down into his lap. “Um, John, in accordance with recent agreements, I feel I must direct your attention to an urgent development.”

John smiles, and looks back out the passenger window. “Drive, Sherlock. Let’s meet our consultant, and then I’ll consider the state of your trousers.”

XXXXX

Sherlock and John are walking up a sidewalk to a nondescript two-story building. There are no names or signs on the building. Several concrete pillars, three feet high and ten inches in diameter, are set thirty feet out from and all the way around the building.

“What’s with the pillars?” John asked quietly.

“Establishes a safe zone,” Sherlock responds. “Moriarty is a cautious man. You can’t park a car bomb close enough to kill. You’d maybe break some windows within the blast radius, but that’s all.”

“Could still do significant damage with a large enough weapon, though.” 

“They’d see you coming,” Sherlock says, subtly gesturing to cameras set on top of the building. “I saw these start two miles away. I’m sure we’re thoroughly expected by now.”

“Good thing we weren’t counting on the element of surprise.”

Sherlock snorts quietly. “Don’t look up, but there are sniper banks on the roof as well.”

John nods. “I’m not feeling too safe here, Sherlock.”

“This is probably the safest building in Vietnam, to be honest. You just don’t want to piss off the owner.”

“Right.” John pauses. “Ready to go piss off the owner?”

“Love to. Carry on.”

**-Voiceover-  
I didn’t really have a plan for this meeting with Moriarty. I found that I wanted to take the measure of the man. By necessity, I’d have to let him take the measure of me. **

John and Sherlock enter the building. The foyer is blandly decorated, a few beige chairs scattered desultorily around low-slung pressboard coffee tables. The room is empty of people, save for a dark haired, dark eyed man sitting slumped in a side chair. He is wearing dark blue jeans, a snug fitting black Polo shirt, and gleaming black cowboy boots. 

Sherlock immediately focuses on the man when they enter. They make eye contact, and he nods. “Mr. Moriarty,” he says.

The man rises, and dips into a deep bow. “At your service, dear officers and gentlemen.” He straightens up and tilts his head, considering John. “Dr. Watson,” he says dismissively.

“Um, hello,” says John.

The man ignores his response, turning instead to Sherlock. He looks him up and down before speaking. “Lieutenant Commander Sherlock Holmes. Now this is a _true_ pleasure. I’ve heard so much about you, you see.” He digs both deep into the pockets of his jeans, and rises up to the toes of his boots. “My, my. You’re just a long tall drink of water, aren’t you?”

Sherlock briefly appears taken aback, but recovers quickly. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Moriarty.”

“Hmmm. Yes. I’m sure. The highlight of your week, in fact.” Moriarty shakes his head. “You’re even prettier in person. That’s a nice surprise.”

“In person?” John asks, stepping around and slightly in front of Sherlock. Moriarty lets his eyes slide slowly from Sherlock’s face to take in John’s protective posture. 

“Don’t worry, Surgeon Lieutenant Commander,” Moriarty says, his voice a caricature of a soothing tone. “I haven’t seen anything you wouldn’t want me to.” Moriarty’s eyes slide back to Sherlock’s face. Sherlock has a slight blush, and Moriarty smiles to see it. “Of course, the dance is just starting, isn’t it?”

Sherlock blinks. “Mr. Moriarty, we are here on official business. Is there a place we can talk?”

Moriarty purses his lips and puts on an exaggerated frown. “Business before pleasure, I see. Very well.” He turns and nods his head toward a doorway. “Let’s go to my office, gentlemen. I’m sure this won’t take too long. Though we might find, Sherlock, that we want to draw it out a bit. That would be fine. I like it slow. Do you, Dr. Watson?”

John, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, begins to reply, but Sherlock puts a restraining hand on his arm and shakes his head. “Leave it,” he mouths, and goes to follow their host.

XXXXX

Sherlock and John are seated in armchairs across from where Moriarty sits at a sofa in the sitting area of his office, his arm thrown casually over the cushions along the back. His legs are stretched out in Sherlock’s direction, as though his feet are straining to touch. There are empty coffee cups on the table. John is tense, leaning forward, hands clenched on the armrests of his chair.

**-Voiceover-  
Moriarty was smooth. I had the sense that nothing would surprise him, and it was a very disconcerting feeling. It was apparent to me that he had been expecting this visit for a while. In a way, it was like watching a cat play with his prey. It’s very entertaining, unless you’re the mouse.**

**I’m not unskilled at modulating responses. A lifetime with my brother has taught me to play my cards close to the chest. John, though. Moriarty had his measure early, and seemed to delight in alternatively needling him and ignoring him. John was terrible at hiding his feelings. Eventually, though, I realized that John was allowing himself to be batted around, in order to allow me time to observe and analyze. It was incredible to watch him lean forward and wade in, jaw set, eyes ablaze. Incredible, and worrying. I didn’t want Moriarty to mark him as an enemy. I suspected Moriarty’s patience with his enemies would be short lived. I had a dead lieutenant to make that point clear.**

**Still, selfishly, I was glad to have John by my side. I’d never had a partner. It felt…good.**

John shakes his head disbelievingly. “And you know nothing about any new chemical weapons being tested.”

Moriarty shakes his head, but his eyes stay locked on Sherlock. “Nope. Nothing. I’m sure y’all know my business better than I do at this point. I don’t do chemicals.”

John scoffs, incredulous. “You do cleaning supplies.”

“I _order_ cleaning supplies. I’m one of Johnson and Johnson’s favorite customers. I don’t make my own. Why would I?” Moriarty grins. “I don’t like to get my hands dirty. Well,” he continues, as he again scans Sherlock’s body, “At least, not with work.”

“And you don’t know anything about Lieutenant Wainwright?”

“God! Sherlock, how do you deal with him? He never lets up. He’s like a terrier. Although,” Moriarty cocks his head, “That kind of persistence can be rewarding in other arenas, now, can’t it.”

Sherlock clears his throat, a slight flush visible high on his cheeks. “Mr. Moriarty.”

“Oh, that voice. I’d listen to you saying my name for _hours_.”

John grinds his teeth, and Moriarty grins even more widely. 

“Oh, fine. Of course I know about Wainwright. I know about all your team. I’d be an idiot if I didn’t. Virginia Tech, football and ROTC scholarships, Communications major, cum laude. Mother dead, father a bus driver in Atlanta. Light brown hair.” He pauses. “Pretty blue eyes.”

Sherlock’s face goes cold. 

“About the color of Johnny’s here, in fact. Very nice. Not my favorite, usually, but I see the appeal. I know all about Wainwright, gentlemen, but I didn’t kill him.”

“We didn’t say you did,” Sherlock answers drily.

“No, that would be leading the witness. Open ended questions get you more complete answers, Sherlock, I’m not stupid. I still didn’t kill him. I don’t think I mind you knowing that.” Moriarty leans forward and licks his lips. “Now what else can I do for you?”

John gets to his feet. “I think we’re done here. Lieutenant Commander Holmes, shall we?”

“Ooh, so formal. All right, then, boys. The party’s over. Daddy’s got work to do, anyway.” Moriarty stands and smooths his shirt over his abdomen. “Let me show you out.” He makes a gesture toward the door. “Doctor?”

John moves quickly to the door, with Sherlock rising and following closely behind him. As John steps into the hallway, Moriarty reaches around to block Sherlock from exiting the room. “One moment, Doctor, the clever boys need to chat.” He pulls a surprised Sherlock to the side and closes the door in John’s face.

Moriarty pushes Sherlock back against the wall next to the door, standing so close to him that they are nearly touching. Sherlock is wide eyed, trying to pull back even further into the wall. Moriarty stands motionless, staring into Sherlock’s eyes for a long, uncomfortable moment.

Finally, he speaks in a low voice. “You could do better. In fact, you could do better right now.”

Sherlock swallows. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. You most certainly do.” Moriarty reaches a single finger up to the right side of Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock flinches at the contact, but Moriarty pushes his face to the side, so that Sherlock’s right ear comes into view. Moriarty leans in until he is almost touching, and takes an exaggeratedly deep breath in. Sherlock draws in a sharp gasp. Moriarty growls before whispering, “You smell like him.” He pulls back just slightly, and his eyes drop to Sherlock’s mouth. “The fragrance does not suit you.” He speaks almost too softly to hear. “You’re willing to risk your career, your reputation, give up this glorious body, all for that little man? Tsk, tsk, Sherlock.” Moriarty makes a little moue of disappointment. “Such great risk for such little reward. You should know better.”

Sherlock gulps, trying to speak. “I…he…”

“No, no, darlin’, you don’t have to explain.” He moves his mouth back to Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock winces and closes his eyes. “Just hear me out. I make a very good living knowing the true value of things, and I can tell you with absolute certainty, that _this_ …” Here he indicates Sherlock’s body with a slight head tip. ”…is worth more than _that_.” He leans slightly back and glances toward the closed door.

There is a pounding on the door. “Sherlock? Sherlock! You OK in there?”

Moriarty steps away. “He’s just coming, Doctor!” he calls. 

Sherlock pushes away from the wall and lunges for the door, but Moriarty puts a hand on it to hold it shut. “You’re a smart man, Sherlock Holmes. We could do some good _work_ together.” He winks. “Keep it in mind, gorgeous.”

Sherlock pulls the door open, desperate. “Let’s go, John!” he says loudly, and moves quickly down the hall. John looks at Moriarty with suspicion, but turns to follow.

“Oh, Doctor?” John stops and turns back. “Tell our boy there I’ve send him a present. I hope he appreciates it.”

John takes a step closer, his nostrils flaring. “He’s not your boy, Moriarty.”

Moriarty smiles coldly. “Not yet, no. Good day, Surgeon Lieutenant Commander.”

He closes the office door.

XXXXX

Sherlock and John are back in the car. John, obviously still livid, is driving. Sherlock is withdrawn and pale. A wave of shivers passes through his body.

John finally takes a deep breath, and looks over at Sherlock. “You OK, there?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to talk, but then just winces and nods.

“What did he say to you?’

Sherlock opens his mouth again, but then closes it and shakes his head.

“My God. You’re really upset. What did he say?”

Sherlock turns to lean his forehead against the window and closes his eyes. “Just take me home, John. All right? Please, just take me home.”

XXXXX

The sedan pulls up in front of Sherlock’s apartment building. Sherlock nearly falls out of the car in his rush to get inside. John quickly follows.

**-Voiceover-  
I don’t know what I was expecting once we got to my flat. I don’t think I was expecting anything. I certainly wasn’t thinking clearly. I mean, I should have been thinking about safe houses and avoiding surveillance. Instead, all I wanted was a glass of scotch and a very, very hot shower.**

“Sherlock. Hold up!” John catches up with Sherlock at the door, where Sherlock is fumbling with his keys. “Here, let me.” John takes his keys and quickly opens the door. Sherlock lunges inside and turns to close the door.

John stands at the threshold, seemingly mystified at Sherlock’s behavior. 

“Well, are you coming in?” Sherlock snaps.

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” John steps in, and barely dodges the door as Sherlock slams it. “Jesus. What the hell?”

Sherlock starts pacing, both hands clutched in his hair. 

“Sherlock. Tell me.” John steps in front of him, forcing him to stop short. “Sherlock. Calm down. Deep breath. OK? OK. Now tell me.”

“John, he… he saw…he said…”

“Sherlock.” John reaches for Sherlock’s face, but Sherlock flinches away. John’s eyes grow wide. “Did he touch you? Sherlock, did he hurt you?”

“Yes. Well, no, he didn’t hurt me. But John, he saw us. In the car. Somehow. He knew you…and he…and he said he could smell you, and…”

“Enough,” John says firmly. “Settle down.” He steers Sherlock to a chair, and pushes him into it. “Sit. I’m getting you a drink.”

Sherlock nods. “Scotch. Kitchen.”

John walks into the next room. There’s a loud cry. “Shit!”

“John? John!” Sherlock jumps up and runs into the kitchen.

John is standing just inside the doorway, staring at the kitchen table. Bao is lying across it, clearly dead. There is a visible gunshot wound in the middle of his forehead, and his eyes are open and unseeing.

“He said he sent you a present,” John whispers. “God, Sherlock. This man is insane.”

Sherlock approaches the body slowly. 

“Be careful. The body could be booby trapped.”

Sherlock nods, and inches closer. He picks up a spatula from the counter, and gently reaches out with it to poke at the body. “Muscles are still soft.” He pokes again. “No rigor mortis. This just happened, John.”

Sherlock draws a bit closer, straining to see without touching. The head suddenly shifts to the side, and the mouth opens a bit with the change in position. Blood begins to drip out. 

“My God. Sherlock. What did he do?”

Sherlock steps closer and leans over to look into the mouth. “He took the tongue, John.” He straightens up and sighs. His voice sounds exhausted. “Bao talked to us, and he took his tongue.”

XXXXX

Police lights flicker outside the flat. Sherlock is sitting on the stoop, wrapped in a blanket. He is staring, unseeing, at the pavement. John stands a few feet away, talking quietly to Molly Hooper, but watching Sherlock closely all the while.

“Sherlock? Sherlock! Jesus, you OK?” Greg Lestrade, grim faced, comes into view. 

Sherlock looks up at him and blinks. “I’m all right, Lestrade. What are you doing here? I thought you were on patrol.”

“Yeah, I was. I just got back in, and heard what happened. I thought I better get over here right away.”

John comes over. “That’s nice of you, Greg.”

Greg shakes his head. “It’s not just that. I went to the office to check in, and all the lights were on. That was weird, but when I went in, I found this on your desk.”

He hands Sherlock a bag. A typewritten note attached to the outside, reads “For Immediate Delivery to Sherlock Holmes.”

“I ran it by the dogs, no response. Wasn’t sure what was going on, but thought it might be, I don’t know, relevant.”

John draws near. “What is it?”

Sherlock slowly opens the bag, and pulls out the contents: a single perfect long-stemmed red rose, a wrapped box of chocolates, and a greeting card.

“What the hell?” Greg asks, dumbfounded.

Sherlock puts the box and flower on the stair next to him, and slowly opens the envelope. The card is a garish red, with a large sparkly pink heart surrounded by flames on the front. Sherlock opens it and reads. He reads it again. After a moment, he closes his eyes, and his hands start to tremble. 

“Sherlock? What does it say?”

He wordlessly hands the card to Greg.

“It says, ‘You’ve set my heart aflame. May I return the favor?’ There’s no signature.” Greg looks up, confused. “All right, who…”

“On the other side. The note. Read the note,” Sherlock interrupts through clenched teeth, eyes still closed.

“Oh, right. It’s hard to see.” Greg tilts the card to pick up the lights from a police cruiser. “It says, ‘One saw what he shouldn’t. One said what he shouldn’t. Now imagine what will happen to one who touches what he shouldn’t.’”

“Oh.” John breathes. “Oh, that bastard.” He reaches up unconsciously, to put a supportive hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock steps away.

**-Cue Credits-**

Next week on Sherlock, P.I.: Heaven, heartbreak, and unexpected allies.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal gratitude to 221bJen and EnduringChill for their generous betaing and plot contributions. Their kindness makes this story stronger. 
> 
> Quick wink to Mazarin 221b, the godmother of this fic. She's going to regret talking me into it after next week, I'll wager.
> 
> Deepest apologies for posting late. Jet lag, man. It's real.


	5. Hearts of Darkness and Light, Part 2a of 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heaven and Heartbreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the changed rating. Apparently this is Sherlock fused with Magnum PI by way of Netflix.

“You’re avoiding me.” 

Sherlock stands at the front door of his apartment, looking down at John with surprise. "What do you…”

“I mean, I’m not a world class investigator or anything, but I can recognize a trend. Last night, this morning at the office, lunchtime, and now here we are.”

“Well, I…all right, yes.”

John sighs deeply. “Look, can I come in?”

Sherlock bites his lower lip lightly. “John, I just don’t want anything to happen to you. Because of, well, me. You know.”

“No. Well, yes, I do know, but…oh, bollocks,” John says, as he pushes past Sherlock to stride into his sitting room. “Sherlock, this is absolute bollocks.”

Sherlock sighs and closes the door. “I think Moriarty would use the term “bullshit.” 

“Oh, bugger Moriarty.”

Sherlock quirks a sad half smile. “I think he wants it the other way ‘round, honestly.”

“No. No, that’s not funny. And anyway, you don’t get to be funny right now. For one thing, you’re not that good at it…”

“Hey!”

“…and for another, this is serious, damn it.”

“Oh, I know it’s serious. He threatened you. He directly threatened you. He said if you…if we…he’d take…he’s a killer, John, and, as you said, insane to boot. He’s unpredictable at best. I’m just trying not to provoke him until we figure out our next step.”

“Yeah, and how’s that going? You cancelled the briefing to come home, and what, hide out?”

“I’m not hiding.”

John cocks a skeptical eyebrow.

“I’m not! I’m just trying to _think_. I can’t think clearly right now.”

“Sherlock, you have to let the team help. You can’t let him into your head like this.”

“He’s not the one in my head! You are!” Sherlock blinks, taken aback at his own outburst. 

John turns to face him, his face a mirror of surprise. “Me? What did I do?”

“You have got to be kidding! You…you…” Sherlock takes a deep breath and steels himself. “You embraced me and you…put your lips on me.”

“It’s called a kiss, Sherlock, and yes. Yes, I did, that’s true. Is that what this is all about?”

“Shouldn’t it be?” Sherlock starts to pace. “Shouldn’t I be concerned that we are doing this…whatever this is? Whatever that was? I mean, come on, John. You and I both know this is playing with fire. I’m not sure what her Majesty would say, but it’s pretty clear Uncle Sam still frowns on certain types of fraternization.” Sherlock stops and throws his hands into the air. “And Moriarty, God. He’s obviously unbalanced, but he’s not stupid. He says the right thing to the wrong person, and boom, there go our careers.”

“Wow, way to borrow trouble, there. You’ve got us dishonorably discharged, and I haven’t even got your kit off.”

Sherlock stops and stares at him. “My arse is not worth a court martial, John.”

“Well, if we stop before we start, I’ll never know.” John moves to stand directly in front of Sherlock. “Right. Look. Are you attracted to me?”

Sherlock starts to laugh, but it’s a humorless sound. “You’re joking, right? I haven’t been able to think about anything else. I’ve got a madman burning his way through the jungle and killing people left and right, and all I can think about is…”

John reaches a cautious hand toward Sherlock’s chest. “Is…what?”

Sherlock drops onto his sofa, drops his head, and ruffles his own hair in frustration. “Things I’d like to…places…God!” He looks up, wild eyed. “John, this isn’t like me. Not at all. I’m always in control of how I feel, but now all I can think about is how you…”

John crouches in front of him, and dips his head to catch Sherlock’s eye. “How I…what?” he murmurs.

“It doesn’t matter, John. It _can’t_ matter.”

“Sherlock. Of course it matters. Do you think we’re the first two military men to feel this way?”

Sherlock looks away. “Court records would indicate not.”

“Right. But for one thing, it’s wartime. You and I both know the brass overlook things in wartime.”

Sherlock sighs, “There is that. Maybe. But still, it’s risky.”

“It is true, though. And you’re a genius, right, and I’m not an idiot…”

Sherlock snorts.

“…At least by normal standards. Git. So I’m thinking, if anyone is going to get away with it, we are. Right? So do you think that maybe, just maybe, we could _not_ end this…whatever it is…before it even has a chance to start?”

Sherlock contemplates John for a long moment. “Moriarty won’t overlook it, John. He’s watching already.”

“Then we just need to catch and roast the bastard, don’t we?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “We were going to do that anyway.”

John smiles. “Then that’s good planning on our part, isn’t it. Now.” He leans in, his expression going soft. “Tell me. I need to know,” he murmurs. “What have you been thinking about? With me?”

Sherlock searches John’s face. His own expression slowly settles into a look of longing. “I keep thinking…how you…were so…gentle.” Sherlock draws in a quivering breath. “No one is ever gentle with me, John.”

John nods. “I know. I know, and…” He reaches out slowly and puts his hand on Sherlock’s knee. Both sets of eyes follow the motion.

“…I _hate_ it,” John finishes, whispering.

Both men stare at John’s hand a moment longer. There’s a faint blush forming on Sherlock’s pale cheeks.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock clears his throat. “Yes, John?”

“What I said before, the lips on you thing?”

“The kiss.”

“Yeah, right, only…I think you were correct. That wasn’t really a kiss.”

Sherlock raises his eyes to John’s face. “No?” he whispers.

John shakes his head slowly. “No.” He looks up to meet Sherlock’s gaze, solemn. “Now…consider this.”

John leans slowly across the space between them. The first touch of their lips is light, a soft brush across the surface. They slip, and slip again, before the brush of lips becomes a firmer caress. John lifts his hand from Sherlock’s knee and slides it into his hair, holding him steady as he slowly deepens the kiss. Sherlock sighs and parts his lips, and John’s tongue comes forward for just the barest taste before he pulls away. Sherlock swallows a faint whimper. They stay close, sharing breath for another few moments before John eases back.

Sherlock’s eyes are hooded and dreamy. John is smiling broadly. Neither can look away from the other.

“So,” Sherlock finally murmurs. “That was a kiss, then.”

“Yes.” John nods, dropping his eyes to Sherlock’s kiss-pinked mouth. “What did you think?”

Sherlock looks thoughtful, a smile playing on his lips. “Interesting.”

John’s eyes are sparkling, though his expression stays serious. “Hmmm. High praise.”

Sherlock shakes his head, pursing his lips ruefully. “You misunderstand me. I’m not sure you got it quite right. Maybe…maybe I should try.”

John cocks a skeptical eyebrow. “If you think you can improve on that, well, by all means.”

Sherlock grins, and reaches out to clasp John’s shirt in his fist. “Oh,” he says, drawing him near. “I do so love a challenge.”

Their mouths crash together.

XXXXX

The sun’s last rays glow feebly at Sherlock’s bedroom window. The room is small and bare, currently decorated only with random pieces of clothing scattered across every surface. John is lying on his stomach in the bed, naked, sheet across his lower body, eyes closed and face blissful. Next to him, Sherlock is lying under the sheet on his side, hands drawn up under his pillow, staring at John’s sleeping face.

**-Voiceover-  
John Watson. Nothing in my experience could have prepared for him. Such an unassuming figure at first, compact and tidy. A set of bright blue eyes and a bland British accent. A polite smile and a modest manner.**

**All plain brown wrapping on a bar of gold.**

**I wasn’t without experience, but sex with John was like nothing I’d ever imagined. His eyes burned with want, but he was infinitely patient. I’d melted under his hands, strong hands that could cure or kill. I’d begged for his mouth, that mouth that alternately coaxed and pursued. And when I reached my climax, the look in those ocean eyes was not one of conquest, not even of passion, but simple…joy. Joy, as though me falling apart beneath him was all he had ever dreamt of.**

**John Watson was a man who _saw_ me, saw everything about me, and still wanted me. God, how I wanted him back.**

**I was lost already.**

John stirs, and slowly opens his eyes. A soft smile spreads across his face. “Hey, there.”

Sherlock smiles back at him. “John.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“No.”

John rolls onto his side to face Sherlock fully. He reaches out to gently trace his thumb along Sherlock’s lower lip. 

“You can’t worry all the time, Sherlock. The stress will kill you.”

Sherlock nips at John’s thumb. “I had a little break an hour or so ago. I think it helped.”

John’s smile broadens into a grin. “I see. Well, how long will it keep you?”

Sherlock chuffs a small laugh. “Are you asking if it was good for me, John?”

“Don’t be silly. I know it was good.”

“Cocky.”

“Nice choice of words.” John rolls on to his back and stretches. 

Sherlock is watching him closely. His smile fades, and he sighs. “John, we…”

John pulls himself up to sitting and leans against the headboard. “No. You are not going to tell me this was a mistake, or that we can’t do it again, or anything along those lines. These topics are forbidden.”

“But…”

“Nope. We can discuss all the ways we just fucked up later. In this bed, at this moment, we are only allowed to pull from a limited list of topics.”

Sherlock sighs loudly, as if hugely put upon. “Very well. What’s on the list?”

“All right, let’s see: what’s for dinner, how good I look without a shirt, where you got these impossibly posh sheets in the middle of a bloody jungle, and, most importantly, crucially in fact, how soon we can do this _again_.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “All right, fine.” He stops to consider. “I’ll make spaghetti, I’ve not seen better, Bloomingdales, and with the cooking time for Bolognese and the average refractory period for men our ages, probably in another hour, give or take.”

“You pack your own sheets.”

“Of course, John, do keep up.”

Sherlock rolls out of bed and starts to walk from the room. John is openly staring at his bare behind.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock stops. “Yes, John?”

“Cook the spaghetti naked, and it won’t be an hour.”

Sherlock grins over his shoulder.

XXXXX

The morning sun is bright and relentless, and the air has that peculiar silence that humid, oppressive heat can bring. John, in his casual white uniform, walks with a brisk, easy stride through the door to their low-slung military office building. He smiles when he thinks no one is looking.

He approaches his desk and his satchel into his chair, nodding to Wiggins. “What’s this, then?”

Wiggins looks over with an expression of surprise. There is an elaborately wrapped gift box sitting on John’s desk, atop a pile of green and white striped report paper. 

“I don’t know, sir. It wasn’t there when I got in, and I haven’t seen anyone come in. Is it your birthday?”

John leans down to look the package over. “Nope, not for a few months. Hmm. There’s no card.”

“Well, open it then. Maybe it’s food.” Wiggins smiles hopefully.

John starts to reach for it, but then hesitates. He steps over to Sherlock’s desk instead, and dials a number on the telephone.

“Sherlock? Yeah, it’s John. I’m at the office.” He drops his voice and turns away from Wiggins’ curious observation. “Listen, you didn’t…send me a present, did you?”

John listens for a moment, his face hardening. “Right. Right. No, I…yes. Yes, I will.” His voice drops to a whisper. “You, too. Watch your back.”

He hangs up and turns to Wiggins with a determined expression. “Sherlock is on his way. Call the bomb squad. We need to clear the building.”

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-**  
**It was a primitive explosive device, set to go off when the box top was lifted. Simple, but effective. It wouldn’t have killed, but it would have caused some damage. Burns, maybe, on the person who opened it.**

**I didn’t stop to question how Moriarty had the skill to make something like this. What I really wanted to know was how the _hell_ he got it into the building. Wiggins had stepped out once for a cigarette and once for coffee, and he swore he hadn’t noticed anything either time. I considered but finally dismissed the possibility that he was involved. I had worked with him for some time, and knew him to be a truly terrible liar. Others, though, in the building, maybe in our own department, might have let him in. Or he could have employed a courier, someone who could hide in plain sight. We could trust no one.**

**If Moriarty had really wanted to hurt John, he could have. For the first time, I felt a touch of true terror.**

XXXXX

“Don’t be an idiot. You’re vulnerable there, you know you are.” John is standing in front of Sherlock, blocking his exit from the otherwise vacant office. John shakes his head, his expression one of determination. “No. We’ll get surveillance on the flat, but you are _not_ going home.”

Sherlock sighs, exhausted. “John, think. If he’s watching, I might as well be where he expects me to be. It would be…”

“What?”

“Well, safer.” Sherlock looks around, before leaning in and lowering his voice. “For you, I mean. If I’m home, and obviously alone, then he won’t…”

“Wait. Alone? Don’t you want to…I mean, didn’t you want me to come over?”

Sherlock stares. “Are you kidding? A man tried to blow you up today because you…” He continues in a whisper. “…Slept at my flat last night. “

“Yeah, but he didn’t succeed.” John’s eyes earnestly search Sherlock’s face. “Look, I need to know. If it wasn’t for Moriarty, would you want to see me again?”

“God, yes.” Sherlock looks surprised by his own passion, and attempts to backpedal. “I mean, obviously I find you attractive, and last night was, um, nice…”

“Stop right there. Last night was not nice, Sherlock. Last night was many things, starting with fantastic and ending with miraculous, but nowhere on the list is the simple word ‘nice.’ And you know it.”

Sherlock sighs. “You’re not helping me be selfless here, John.”

John grins. “Neither of us are boy scouts. Look, we’ll get base police to watch the flat, and you can come stay at the Bachelor Officers Quarters. You can handle it for a couple of days. The bedding won’t be up to your standards, but…” 

“That is a terrible idea.”

“Best we’ve got. We’ll arrange the watch, and then we can get you set up. It’s movie night tonight. I think it’s a James Bond double feature.”

Sherlock groans. “I am not watching spy movies with a bunch of drunken sailors, John.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to.” John takes a step closer. “But everyone _else_ will be at the movie, so we can take that time to…” John’s eyes drop to Sherlock’s lips as he murmurs. “…hmmm…explore the… amenities at the club.”

Sherlock’s breath catches. “Oh.”

John leans back and grins. “It’s a plan, then?”

Sherlock shakes his head as if to clear it. “Um. Yes. Fine. All right. You call security, and I’ll send a message to Mycroft. Maybe we can put his nosiness to good use, for once.”

XXXXX

Sherlock drops his bag at the end of a single bunk in an aggressively bland, undecorated room. Evening light shimmers through the slats of Venetian blinds over a small window, and the yellow light of a low wattage light bulb in a table lamp casts shadows against the beige walls. The room still seems dark. John stands at the doorway.

“Could be worse,” John says. 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock shrugs. “I know I come across as a sybarite, John, but I can handle austerity just fine. You should have seen the Academy bunks.”

John smiles and takes a step into the room. “I’d never call you a sybarite, Sherlock.”

“No?”

“No. Mainly because I don’t know what it means.” Sherlock gives a small chuckle. “So…dinner?”

Sherlock nods. “I’m assuming we’ll want to stay on base.”

“There’s a decent buffet at the Officers’ Club.”

“Lead the way.” Sherlock gestures to the doorway. John stops to look at the doorknob before stepping into the hallway.

“Problem?”

“No, not at all. Just making sure the doors have locks.”

Sherlock stumbles, but catches himself against the wall. John swallows an amused smile.

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-**  
**I knew this was wrong. I’ve never been afraid to take chances, ignore risks. I’ve figured boredom would kill me in far more painful ways than a sniper’s bullet or a misjudged leap. But this was different. This wasn’t for a case, or in battle, but for, well, sex. Passion. Companionship. Comfort.**

**Love.**

**It was far too soon to be thinking in such terms, but there I was. Watching his eyes sparkle over the cheesy candle at the O Club as he laughed at some ridiculous pun. Smiling at his quiet fury as he spelled out the flaws of American sports. Marking his unspoken appreciation as he teased me for having my uniforms tailored. The word kept coming unbidden to mine, despite my fiercest attempts to keep it at bay.**

**We were literally risking our lives at every moment, just to be together.**

**He was worth it.**

Sherlock unlocks and pushes open the door to his room, and reaches to turn on the light. John stays his hand.

“Leave it,” he says in a low voice. He steps across the room to the window, and turns the plastic rod to close the Venetian blinds.

Sherlock steps into the room and closes the door behind him. “John, I…”

“No. Just shush.” John opens the paper bag he’s carrying, and pulls out one of the carved glass votives from the Officers’ Club.

“You…stole a candle?”

John lights the candle, and sets it on the small side table. “I _borrowed_ a candle. Tipped Bobby five bucks. He won’t care.”

John straightens and lifts an eyebrow. He tilts his head toward the door.

“Lock it.”

Sherlock immediately turns to flip the lock. When he turns back around, John is right in front of him, hair faintly glowing in the candlelight. He takes another step forward. Sherlock looks down at him, eyes alight but expression solemn. Slowly, he reaches out to put his hands on John’s waist. “Hello,” he murmurs.

“Sherlock,” John sighs. He leans his head briefly against Sherlock’s chest, rubbing into it like a cat. “It was all I could do not to kiss you over dinner. You’re beautiful, you know that?” Another step, and John’s body is pressing Sherlock back against the door. “And your brain. And your _voice_ , Christ.” John slides his hands slowly up his chest. “That voice out of this mouth…” John reaches up to slide his thumb across Sherlock’s lower lip.“…Tell me how a man is supposed to resist.”

Sherlock sighs, and melts back into the door. He draws a finger along John’s jawline, and John leans into the touch. “John. This is dangerous.”

John looks intently into his eyes. “You saw it in me the day we met. I love danger.”

“We could be caught.”

“We won’t.”

“Moriarty…”

“ _No_.” John closes his eyes for a brief moment. “You don’t say that name to me. Not here. He can’t get to us here.”

Sherlock draws in breath to speak, but John puts a finger over his lips. “Sherlock. Please. Just…” He leans in slowly, moving closer with every word. “Shut. The. Hell. Up.” 

Sherlock’s eyes are half closed, but he quirks a half smile. “Make me,” he whispers.

John’s mouth claims his, strong and certain. His hands press against Sherlock’s face, holding him steady as he slips his tongue into his open mouth. It’s slow at first, and Sherlock wraps his long arms around him to pull him closer. John lowers a hand and starts to unbutton his shirt. He slips inside to find a nipple, budding under the soft cotton undershirt. Sherlock writhes under his touch, losing the coherence of the kiss. 

Their mouth pull apart, even as John starts to roll his hips. Sherlock gasps, but John slaps a hand across his mouth. 

“Not a sound, do you hear me?” he whispers. “Not a single sound.”

Sherlock, wild-eyed, nods. He flicks his tongue out to lick John’s hand. John’s eyes grow wide.

“God, you’ll be the death of me,” John barely breathes. He grasps Sherlock’s hips and yanks the two of even more closely together. In the light of the candle, John can see Sherlock biting his lower lip, eyes closed as they rub together in a tortuously slow rhythm.

After a minute, John eases back and slowly slides to his knees. Sherlock’s eyes fly open in shock. “What are you…” he mouths, but the answer quickly becomes clear as John determinedly unbuckles Sherlock’s belt and quickly opens his trousers. He roughly pulls Sherlock’s khaki trousers and white boxers to his knees, freeing his already flushed, hard cock. He leans forward to rub his cheek up the length of Sherlock’s shaft before gently mouthing the now glistening head, closing his eyes to savor the drip of pre-come he gathers with his tongue. 

Sherlock’s head slams back against the door and he barely manages to swallow a moan. He raises one hand to his mouth and bites a knuckle. The other, he slides slowly, carefully, into John’s hair.

John nods, exaggeratedly, and then leans back in to quickly swallow Sherlock down.

Sherlock’s knees threaten to buckle, but John places a reinforcing palm on his thigh as he starts to move. He slides up and down Sherlock’s cock slowly, his tongue warm and firm along the underside of Sherlock’s narrow length. The only music in the room comes from the soft wet sounds of John’s tongue, mixed with Sherlock’s muffled panting. The light from the candle casts the two in clear relief; Sherlock laid open and quivering with pleasure, and John’s gentle worship at his feet.

It’s just a few minutes before Sherlock’s hand tightens in John’s hair. He mouths John’s name, just loudly enough to be heard. John gives a little shake of his head, makes the quietest of moans and continues his careful movements. It’s barely another moment before Sherlock bites into his palm, his back arching as he buries himself in John’s welcoming mouth. John smiles around him as he thrusts a second and then a third time.

As John slides slowly back, releasing him, Sherlock leans back against the door and covers his eyes. A sudden tremor ripples through his body. “My god,” he whispers. 

John is still smiling. He gently slides Sherlock’s clothing back into place before smoothing his hands back down Sherlock’s thighs. Pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s thigh he gives a soft sigh of satisfaction. They linger there.

“You OK?” Sherlock finally whispers.

“Yeah,” John replies, softly. “You?”

“Oh, yes.” Sherlock looks down fondly, and even in the faint light, there’s an obvious twinkle in his eyes. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“Brace for impact.”

“What…?” John leans back, a gentle puzzled furrow to his brow, but before he can finish his question, Sherlock launches himself off the door. John suddenly finds himself on his back, Sherlock following closely behind to perch on his knees between John’s legs.

“Oh, God, you don’t have to…” But Sherlock is already pulling John’s trousers down with one hand while he licks the palm of the other. He quickly wraps his large hand around John’s cock and gives a single, firm stroke. John swallows a groan.

“Your turn. Not a sound, remember,” Sherlock whispers with a wicked smile. His hand starts moving with purpose up and down John’s hard length. He leans over John’s belly, moving his shirt up and out of the way to nuzzle briefly at his navel. Then, still never breaking the relentless rhythm, he then stretches up to support himself above John on one arm. Their uniformed chests brush lightly with each movement. Sherlock stares down into John’s eyes, still stroking, and leans down to kiss him, deeply, slowly. He pulls away to let his lips hover just above John’s, breathing in as John breathes out. Sherlock’s hand shifts to glide along the head, collecting pre-come, before returning to firm, even strokes. “Oh, God. Harder,” John manages to whisper, and Sherlock obliges.

John is panting now, clutching Sherlock’s hips, his head thrown back in ecstasy. Sherlock runs his tongue up John’s neck and along his jaw, moving his nose in closer to nuzzle John’s pulse point before moving his mouth to John’s ear.

“John,” Sherlock breathes, with almost no sound at all, “Come for me.”

John’s eyes fly open wide and he tenses, freezing for a moment before the crest overtakes him, and he begins to come. He starts to shake all over as Sherlock’s now gentle strokes slowly tease out another pulse, and another. Finally, John lightly places his hand on Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock releases his hold and falls to John’s side, burying his face into the crook of his shoulder.

“My God. That was _amazing_ ,” John whispers. Sherlock hums and smiles into his neck.

Outside, in the parking lot just beyond Sherlock’s window, there is a deafening explosion as a jeep bursts into flame.

XXXXX

Sherlock is shuffling through a stack of reports and photographs. John is sitting stock still, blindly staring at the cup of coffee he holds in both hands.

“Nothing,” Sherlock says. “No one saw anything.”

John does not respond.

“The morning reports are completely useless.”

John continues to stare.

“Mycroft had perfect surveillance on the flat, where nothing happened. The bastard blew up Navy property on a major American base during a war. Four wounded. Thousands in damages.”

John blinks once but otherwise does not move.

“John. Are you listening?”

John finally stirs, sighing deeply before replying.

“Yeah. We don’t know anything. No one knows anything. We’re all bloody idiots.” He takes a quick look around. No one is nearby. “You were right, Sherlock.”

“About…”

“The risk.” John shifts forward in his chair, carefully not making eye contact. “You called it. I pushed it, and something bad happened. God, the bastard must have eyes in every corner of this base.” He sighs. “I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock is staring. “This isn’t your fault, John.”

“Isn’t it?”

Sherlock leans back into his chair, shaking his head. “I’m not certain, of course, but I have to think that something would have happened with Moriarty sooner or later. I mean, it’s pretty obvious he’s insane. That kind of stuff surfaces sooner or later. I’m not sure how we play into it…”

John lifts his eyebrow, still contemplating his coffee. “Looked in a mirror recently?”

Sherlock shakes his head again. “It could have been anyone, or anything. Obsession is irrational, John.”

John finally raises his head to look Sherlock in the eyes. “On the contrary, choosing you as his obsession is the one sane thing that man has done.”

Sherlock is unable to look away. “Oh.” he finally whispers.

John nods slowly, softly smiling beneath his sad eyes.

At that moment, Wiggins bangs through the office door. The men quickly shift their gazes from each other. “Morning! Commander Hooper is on her way over. Think I’ve got something, sirs.”

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-  
** **Wiggins had been busy. He’d started by researching all the chemicals that had been shipped to Moriarty’s various enterprises. None of the materials were of interest on their own merits at first, so he started crosschecking delivery dates between the companies. He still found nothing, but the data were fresh in his mind.**

**The analysis of the explosive device from the jeep proved the breakthrough. There were traces of an unusual detergent that had no place in an engine, or anywhere outside an industrial laundry. It was a detergent specifically designed to penetrate very deep stains. We pulled the invoices for recent deliveries to Moriarty’s cleaning service, and cross checked those dates among all his companies. In that same period, there was a large delivery of an adhesive commonly used in engine repair, and, strangely enough, to the MRE kitchens, a significant quantity of a very particular spice commonly used in…**

“Curry,” John says. “Asofoetida is also used in native medicines in some places. It’s thought to have gastrointestinal and neurologic effects. The extract contains natural coumadins, and dissolves corns and calluses quite…oh.”

“Right,” says Sherlock. “I should have seen this. Find a way to amplify the effects of the spice, mix these together in the right combination, add in some oil and a propellant that combusts at low heat, and you’ve got…”

“A chemical weapon.” Molly shakes her head. “It hits the skin, adheres, dissolves its way in, and is triggered by the target’s own body heat.” She straightens in her chair. “Gentleman, this is one sick bastard. But what I don’t understand is, we haven’t been able to find any traces of this on any of the victims. Why are we seeing it now?”

John tilts his head quizzically. “Well, could be that this time we aren’t dealing with, you know, tissue. Maybe the chemicals don’t dissipate in non-organic systems?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, that’s not it. He could account for that easily. He didn’t even have to use this formula this time. No, this is a calling card. He tweaked the formula. He wants us to be certain it’s him.”

Wiggins leans back. “So, now we know. We can go get him, right?”

John and Sherlock exchange a glance across the table. “It’s too obvious, Wiggins,” John says. “It’s a trap. He’s trying to force a confrontation.”

Sherlock nods in agreement. “He’s trying to get us to act according to some schedule of his own.”

Molly grimaces. ”God, all this game playing. I don’t know how you do this every day. I mean, _I’m_ stressed, and I deal with dead people eighty percent of the time.” She shakes her head ruefully. “Though to be fair, we are understaffed. I was hoping to get away this weekend, but I’m going to have to be on duty. All this…” She waves her hand at the board. “…has really set me back.”

John clears his throat. “Sorry, Molly.”

“Oh, it’s all right. I’ll catch up on paperwork.” She sighs and starts to gather her materials. “Gentlemen, this is all very disturbing, and I’m impressed you figured it out so quickly. Well done.”

She stands, and the men rise as one. John comes around the table. “With thanks to you, Commander. Let me walk you out.”

XXXXX

It’s night, and Sherlock is lying on his bed in the BOQ, only the weak light coming through the window giving the room any detail. As he stares at the featureless ceiling, he hears a quiet scratching at the door. The door opens just enough for John to slip through. He stands before Sherlock and places his finger across his lips.

Sherlock nods, curious.

John brandishes a legal pad and begins to write with a marker in large letters. When he’s done, he holds the pad up like a sign.

DON’T SAY ANYTHING

Sherlock nods again and makes a “go ahead” gesture.

GRAB SOME CIVVIES AND YOUR TOOTHBRUSH AND MEET ME IN THE ALLEY BEHIND THE PX IN 15 MINUTES

Sherlock lifts an inquisitive eyebrow.

LEAVE HERE THROUGH THE SIDE EXIT BY THE RUBBISH BINS

“Why?” Sherlock mouths.

I’M TAKING YOU AWAY FOR THE WEEKEND

Sherlock shakes his head emphatically and gestures to the parking lot outside his window.

HE WON’T KNOW

Sherlock raises his hand in a “stop” gesture and continues to shake his head.

SHERLOCK, THINK  
NO ONE KNOWS WHERE WE’RE GOING  
NOT EVEN YOU

Sherlock looks affronted at first, but after a moment’s consideration, makes an exaggeratedly thoughtful expression and nods his head slowly. A grin starts to form.

15 MINUTES

Sherlock stares at John for a long minute before sighing in surrender, a smile on his lips. “OK,” Sherlock mouths.

John grins and gives a thumbs up, before scribbling one quick last note.

ON SECOND THOUGHT, FORGET THE CLOTHES

Sherlock grins and shoos John from his room.

XXXXX

“I heard about it from Molly, it’s where she wanted to go this weekend. It’s an historic resort in Da Lat.” John slows the sedan to allow a donkey-drawn cart to cross the road.

“Da Lat,” Sherlock muses. “Never been there. Not much Navy presence.”

“Makes sense, seeing as how it’s inland. You know what else they don’t have there?”

“Navy contractors?”

“Exactly.”

Sherlock grins and stretches his legs out beneath the dashboard. “You, Surgeon Lieutenant Commander, are a genius, and don’t let me ever tell you otherwise.”

John smiles, and puts his hand on Sherlock’s knee. “Wait until you see what else I have planned.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“Well, it’s really rather visual in nature.”

“Ah.”

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-**  
**The hotel was charming. It had everything we could have asked for: room service, large beds, ambient lighting, showers, and thick walls.**

As Sherlock is drawing the curtains, the bellboy accepts a coin from John, tips his red hat, and leaves. John closes the door behind him. As soon as the door clicks shut, Sherlock is behind him, pressing against him and nuzzling his ear. John leans back against him, and considers their reflection in the full length mirror on the wall. Sherlock wraps his arms around him to pull him back against his chest even more firmly. He slides his hands down John’s chest and abdomen to the waistband of his jeans, and starts to slowly pull his shirt out of where it is tucked into his trousers. He has buried his face in John’s hair, and so is unable to see the intense look of longing and tenderness that John is giving him in the mirror. 

“Bit eager, are we?” John murmurs, grabbing Sherlock’s hands to stay their actions and turning his head to rub his cheek along his face.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” Sherlock drops his head to start trailing gentle kisses down the side of John’s neck. “Just hours ago I was despairing of ever touching you again, and now I have you to myself for fifty-three hours.”

“Forty-eight hours. We need to… _ahh_ , mmm…be back in the office Monday morning for that briefing at _oh, oh_ …seven.”

Sherlock noses John’s shirt away from his skin, and starts gently nibbling at the nape of his neck. “Fifty-three hours. If we leave at two, we’ll be back to base by six. I’ll drive; you can kip in the car. We’ll have time for showers and still beat everyone to the office.”

John sighs, sinking more deeply into the caresses. “You’ll be a right disagreeable bastard.”

“Mmm. Absolutely. Let go of my hands.” 

“I was hoping _oh God right there_ …that maybe…yes, mmm….we could talk a bit first? I did have…plans…”

Sherlock briefly lifts his head to meet John’s eyes in the mirror. “I just found us five extra hours, John. I believe the phrase is, ‘Dibs.’”

“Yeah, well, these plans involve lube and preparatory measures.”

Sherlock rears his head back, briefly startled, before his face dissolves into a wide grin. “Why, my dear Doctor Watson. You never cease to amaze.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” John says, as he turns in his arms and captures his lips in a hard, almost rough, kiss.

XXXXX

Sherlock flops down on to the pillow and groans. John is lying next to him, panting. They exchange a satisfied grin, and John reaches across to take Sherlock’s hand.

“I’m not a particularly religious man,” John says between gulps of air, “but I think I might have just seen God.”

Sherlock chuckles and lifts John’s hand to his lips for a quick kiss. “Pretty sure that act isn’t sanctioned by any of the major religions.”

John nods, laughing. He rolls over onto Sherlock and kisses him, a long, lingering press of the lips, before pulling back to look into his eyes. Sherlock meets his gaze, and they stare, grins slowly turning to something softer.

“Sherlock?” John finally whispers. “Can I tell you something real?”

Sherlock nods. “Of course, John,” he murmurs back. “Anything.”

John swallows, his face taking on a hint of determination. “You…well.” He swallows again. “You…I… um.” He looks away and gives a humorless chuckle. “We…god. Why is this so hard?”

“Well, we _are_ British.”

“Shh. This is important. All right. I want you to know this.” He takes a deep breath and braces himself. “Right. You make me _happy_. OK? Happier than I’ve ever been. Lunatics and military regulations aside, and with all that has happened, you…yeah.”

Sherlock’s eyes have gone wide, and they search John’s face. “…Really?”

“Yeah.”

John leans in for another gentle kiss before continuing. “And…Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“I really, truly, deeply…hate lying in the wet spot.”

Sherlock chuffs a laugh. “All right, budge up. I’ll grab a flannel.”

John rolls off of Sherlock onto his back, and Sherlock pulls himself off the bed to his feet. He walks to the small en suite and flips on the light. Seconds later, there’s the hiss of a rocket, and then several loud pops outside the window.

“What the hell? Get the light,” John hisses, jumping to his feet. Sherlock flips the switch as John slides against the wall and eases the curtain back to look outside.

There’s a boom, and a flash of colored light shimmers across John’s hair. “Sherlock, it’s fireworks.”

“Fireworks?” Sherlock walks quickly to the window and looks into the sky over John’s shoulder. The dancing lights reveal the confused crinkle of his brow. “It’s not a holiday. Is there a local festival or something?”

John is shaking his head. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t they have said something at check in?” 

“One would think.” Another bright explosion shimmers up high, and a few more popping sounds echo in through the glass, the noise now mixed with the appreciative murmurs of observers in the hotel courtyard.

Sherlock looks thoughtful. “Shall we check it out?”

John nods and replaces the curtain. They dress quickly in the dark and check for their room keys. Sherlock starts to pull the door open, but hesitates. John almost walks into him as he stops.

“Problem?”

“John, just…humor me.” Sherlock pushes John to the side and leans his back against the wall. He opens the door a tiny crack, just enough to peek through the slit. He looks out carefully for a moment, eyes narrowed, before pulling the door open a bit wider. Cautiously, he starts to stick his head out to check the other direction, but his attention is caught by something on the floor just outside their door. His breath stutters.

“What is it?” John whispers.

Sherlock pushes the door closed and stands completely still for a moment, leaning on the door as if for support. John carefully places a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Sherlock?” John finally whispers.

“He knows we’re here, John,” Sherlock says flatly. “The son of a bitch knows we’re here.” He slaps the door once, hard, in anger, and pushes away. 

John steps forward and carefully opens the door. Sitting on the floor outside the room is a dozen roses in a vase, elaborately arranged.

John closes his eyes briefly, as if in pain. Then he crouches and considers the flowers more carefully. “Sherlock, there’s a card.” He looks at the arrangement from all angles, before slowly, carefully reaching to pinch the card from its setting. He shakes and sniffs it before standing and closing the door, leaving the roses in the hallway.

“It’s addressed to you,” John says, handing him the small envelope. “What does it say?”

Sherlock reads the brief note, and winces. He raises one shaking hand to shield his eyes, but only for a moment. Then he takes a deep breath and looks up, face carefully blank.

“Pack your gear, John. We need to get back to base.”

“Wait, what does it say?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Come on, let’s go.”

John clenches a fist and smiles a mirthless, angry grin. “Sherlock Holmes, we are not leaving this room until you tell me what is on that card.”

Sherlock stares at him. After a moment, in an emotionless voice, he says, “The game is over. Daddy’s had enough now. JM.”

“Daddy?”

Sherlock lifts one shoulder in a half shrug, his face still blank.

“All right, is that all?”

Sherlock hesitates.

“Sherlock.”

“All right. There’s a telephone number.”

John sniffs. “You will not call that number.”

Sherlock sighs. “John. We have to…”

“No. No, he’s gone too far. And this is too much for one man. We’ll handle this as a team.”

Sherlock is shaking his head. “I’m his target, John, and I can handle it. I can solve this. I need to.”

“No. No, we do this together, damn it. You don’t have to do this alone.” Sherlock looks away and stays silent. “For Christ’s sake, Sherlock. We have the armed forces of two major world powers on our side. We can do this, but we need to work _together_.”

“It’s not SAFE!” Sherlock explodes. “It’s _personal_ , don’t you understand? God knows what he wants from me, but he wants you _dead_.”

“I don’t care!” John roars back. “I won’t leave you alone in this! Don’t you think I can handle myself?”

“It’s not that! Look, look here.” Sherlock holds the card up in front of John’s eyes. “Read the rest. Go on.”

John takes the card. “Tell John I hope you were worth it,” he reads slowly. He looks back to Sherlock’s tense face, the anger in his own expression fading. 

“You were. You _are_ ,” he says calmly.

Sherlock makes an inarticulate sound of frustration and rage.

“No, really. Come here,” John says, taking a step closer and reaching out to take Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock resists for a moment, but finally wraps his arms around John’s torso and rests his chin in the crook of his shoulder. John turns his head to speak softly into Sherlock’s ear.

“We’ll figure this out. All right? We will. You’re a genius, and I’m highly motivated. We’ll get this bastard, and we’ll get medals, and they’ll write us up in the newspapers. Then we’ll both take leave, and we will go to a fantastic hotel in London, and we will eat, drink, and shag ourselves silly until one or both of us requires hospitalization. Sound good?”

Sherlock’s arms tighten around John’s middle. “Acceptable,” he says, and the resolve in his voice belies the look of despair and desperation on his face.

XXXXX

Sherlock is in the driver’s seat of the sedan, one hand on the steering wheel and the other arm stretched along the back of the bench seat. John is curled up next to him, dozing on his shoulder.

**-Voiceover-  
Of course I called the number. I snuck away while John was justifying our premature exit to the front desk clerk. It was child’s play.**

**We had been assuming all alone that Moriarty was insane, and our talk did not alter that assumption. As I had suspected, though, his madness had method in it. He was willing to discontinue marketing his chemical weapon and to leave us both alive, under two conditions. One, John would leave Vietnam, and we never speak again. Two, I would give him the plans for all American troop movements for the ninety days.**

**I had to hand it to him. He knew I’d have access to the planning briefs at my security level; I rarely consulted them myself, but it wouldn’t be unusual for an investigator to review them in the course of a case. That information would be incredibly valuable on the world intelligence market. He’d be set for some time, especially if he could continue to pressure me. I had no doubt that was his intention.**

**As to John leaving, well. Moriarty hadn’t even needed to ask. That decision had been made the instant I saw those blood colored flowers at our door.**

“John, wake up. We’re back.”

“Hmmm--what? Oh, right.”

The car pulls to a stop in front of the BOQ. John rubs his eyes and checks his watch. “You made good time.” He opens the door and stretches his way out of the car, groaning. He grabs his bag, and then bends over to look in at Sherlock. “You’re not coming?”

Sherlock shakes his head, not meeting John’s eyes. “No, I should return the car to the garage. I’ll just…I’ll see you at the club for lunch, all right? Meet me at noon.”

“Sherlock…you’re OK, yeah?”

“Yeah, John. Of course.”

“All right, then. See you in a while.”

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-**  
**It wasn’t going to be easy to convince John to leave. He was the sort of man who committed to a cause, the kind of man who would sacrifice himself for justice, or for a loved…for someone he cared for. Under normal circumstances, I wasn’t that kind of man. I was selfish. I was proud. I didn’t need anyone. But this, this was different. Driving away that early morning felt like a magnet must, as it rips from iron.**

**I told myself that I had not changed, but I knew deep down that I was kidding myself. The truth was, I had fallen in love with John Watson. He had written himself into my very cells, and I would never work him free. But I knew that to save him, I had to lose him.**

**I could only hope that he would understand, and that I would forget someday.**

Sherlock stands outside the Officers’ Club, neat in his uniform. He checks his watch, frowning. He paces and turns, paces and turns, and then checks his watch again.

“Lieutenant Commander Holmes?” A young Seaman steps out of the club. “Is that you, sir?”

Sherlock nods.

“Great. Something for you, sir.” The young man hands Sherlock a manila envelope.

“Wait, who gave you this?”

“It just sort of appeared at the desk. There was a note on it describing, well, you, sir, and saying you’d be expecting this at 12:30.”

Sherlock turns away, dismissing him. He holds the envelope up to the light, then holds it sideways and looks along the surface. He raises it to his nose and sniffs, and sniffs again. Finally, he carefully slides his finger along the flap to open it and pulls out a note.

_I’ve tried luring you to the flame, Sherlock, to no avail. Let’s try something else. Shall we have a proper chat? You can guess where. Midnight. Dress casual._

_PS: Apologies for the quality of the paper. I know you deserve better, but my options are so limited here. Did you even see the **watermark**? Horrible._

_PPS Pity we won’t be alone tonight, but I wanted you to have a chance to say goodbye._

All the color drains from Sherlock’s face.

**-Voiceover-  
John. _John._ Oh god.**

XXXXX

It’s a dark night, silent and close. Sherlock stands in front of the base recreational hall. He takes a deep breath, sets his shoulders, and enters the building.

He walks into a darkened room containing a large swimming pool. There is a light under the surface of the water casting a faint glow, but the edges of the room are in shadow. Sherlock’s posture is erect and alert, and his expression one of focus and caution. He turns around in a slow circle while he moves slowly toward the pool. 

“Well, here I am,” he says to the empty room. “Took me a while, but I think I’ve come to understand. Why don’t you come out, and we’ll talk?” His voice is persuasive. 

There is a squeal of a door opening, and Sherlock stops and turns to face the sound. A human figure steps in through the doorway and stands in the darkness next to the bleachers.

“Did you bring it?” A man’s rough voice, the sound bouncing back off the water.

Sherlock frowns. “Who’s there?”

After a moment of hesitation, the figure walks slowly out of the shadows and toward Sherlock and the pool. It is a man, walking with a slight limp. There is the rasp of a throat being cleared before the man speaks again, this time with a recognizable English accent. “I said, did you bring it?”

John Watson steps into the light. His hands are tightly clasped at his sides, and his face is tense and angry.

He looks straight ahead. He does not look at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s face has lost all color, and his expression is one of complete shock. His mouth moves for a moment before he is able to produce sound. “…John?”

John still does not look at Sherlock. “Did. You. Bring. It.”

Sherlock stumbles a bit as he starts to move toward him, but John immediately gives a single, small shake of his head. Sherlock stops short, still yards away, and unconsciously starts to raise one hand toward the man. “No. No, John, of course not. That would be treason.”

John still does not look at him, or move, but his eyes close with relief, and he takes a deep breath.

From the opposite corner of the room, a voice breaks in with a high-pitched giggle. “Hee hee hee! Of course not, John. You know your boy better than that!” Jim Moriarty, wearing blue jeans, a white button down, and a Texas University ball cap, steps out of the shadows. “Sherlock here ain’t about to commit _treason_ , man, what are you thinking?” He stops to smack his gum a few times. “Of course, it’s a pity, really. Would have saved a lot of hassle. Show him what I mean, Johnny Boy.”

John pulls to full attention, and after a second of hesitation, starts to unbutton his dress top with one white-gloved hand. He moves slowly, but when done, carefully pulls apart the jacket flaps to reveal an elaborate set of red, black and white wires feeding into two fist-sized blocks of plastic explosives, all attached to John’s white undershirt with silver duct tape.

Moriarty gestures widely toward John, who is again motionless at attention. “Now, that’s a show waiting to happen!” He steps a few feet closer. “So. Tell me, Lieutenant Commander Holmes,” he says, suddenly very serious, “Shall we reconsider this notion of treason? Because I’m gonna let Johnny here go. Question is, will it be straight to heaven…” Here he pantomimes an explosive gesture with his hands. ”…Or straight back to your _bed?_ ”

Moriarty takes a few more steps closer to Sherlock, and considers him calmly. “Tough choice, right? I mean, obviously he’s special to you, although…” Moriarty turns to assess John with a sneer, before turning back to Sherlock. “…I certainly don’t see why.”

Sherlock again puts out a stilling hand. “Moriarty. Jim. Don’t do this.”

Moriarty barks a harsh laugh. “Jim, now, is it. Oh, dear, Doctor, your boy’s got it _bad_. Is it the accent? It’s the accent, isn’t it. Damn it.”

“Jim. Let’s talk about this. Just let him go. Please.”

“I told you, silly. I’m going to let him go.” Moriarty begins to pace. “Though I won’t lie, my feelings are a teeny bit hurt that I had to grab him to get your attention. I mean, I sent you flowers. And fireworks. And chocolates. Did you like the chocolates?”

Sherlock takes a step closer to the space between John and Moriarty. “Jim. Look, there has to be something…”

“I ASKED you a question, Sherlock. Did you like the damn CHOCOLATES!”

Sherlock blinks for a moment, taken aback by the sudden shift in Moriarty’s demeanor. 

“Uh, they were…fine. Lovely. Um, thank you.”

Moriarty tips his head gracefully in acknowledgement, calm once again. “I’m glad you enjoyed them.” He starts to pace again, more slowly this time. “Well, time to get down to it. We have a problem, and we need to address it. Johnny here…” He nods dismissively in John’s direction. “Seems to bring out the best in you. You’ve gotten very close, very fast.” He stops and rises up on his toes, a seemingly subconscious gesture. “Not that I don’t enjoy the proximity, but I have work to do.”

Sherlock nods. He’s still pale, but his face has settled into a calm mask. “I see. You should know, though, that I would be a pain in the arse even without John. I didn’t request his help, you know. He just sort of showed up.”

“Oh, I know,” Moriarty says. “I’ve had my eye on you for a long time now. But still, you put this together pretty quickly once he showed up. Sweet really, showing off for the boyfriend. You cute little peacock, you.” He winks.

“Anyway, obviously he needs to _go_. I’m a very busy man, and I would prefer a permanent solution. How about this: you leave. You can run on back to the office and get those troop movement charts. I’ll wait here with Johnny, get some tips on what you like, you know the type of thing.” A salacious grin. “Ticklish spots. Hot zones. Safe words.” He stops to giggle, waving a hand in the air. “I’m blushing! Sorry. Anyway, grab those and come on back, and we’ll straighten this mess up once and for all. Sound good?”

Sherlock shakes his head, solemn. “You know I can’t do that, Moriarty.”

Moriarty’s grin is replaced, lightning fact, by a mask of fury. “Then John dies. And you’ll die with him. Romantic. Pedestrian. Not what I expected, Sherlock, not at all. I’m so disappointed.”

Sherlock manages a tight smile. “So sorry to let you down.”

Moriarty sighs. "Well, you’re not the first, alas. All right then, if you’re sure?”

“Sherlock…” John’s voice is tight, but clear. “Maybe you should just _get out of here_ and go get the documents.”

“Ah, look. Johnny is trying to set you free. Make a run for it, darling, I’ll die for you. You’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson. That’s…really rather brave, actually.” Moriarty makes an exaggerated face of surprise. “But ultimately, pointless.” He reaches into his pocket and slowly draws out a small device, about the size and shape of a cigarette lighter. He demonstrates its presence with a dramatic flourish. Both Sherlock and John are holding their breath.

Suddenly, the harsh beep of a pocker pager echoes around the room.

The three men remain frozen for a few seconds longer, before Moriarty sighs and exaggeratedly rolls his eyes. “Hang on, duty calls. Let me see to that.”

Sherlock and John exchange a quick glance. Moriarty pulls a pager from his pocket and checks the number.

“Oh, for god’s…ugh. All right.” Moriarty shakes his head and looks back to Sherlock. “So sorry. Where were we?”

The pager sounds again. 

“Christ!” Moriarty exclaims. “Jesus! Can I just…Fine. Fine! It’s fine,” he says, calming. He drops into an exaggerated slump and sighs, deeply. “Wrong day for you to die, gentlemen.”

He straightens, and suddenly he is all business. “Here’s what is going to happen. Sherlock, you are going to leave me the hell alone. Watson, you are going to just _leave_. Go back to England. Go heal people or whatever boring thing you do there, just get out of this country and _stay_ out. And most importantly, are you listening? This is the most important part: never, ever, speak to or see each other again.”

He takes the few steps into Sherlock’s space and draws up nearly close enough to touch. Sherlock leans his head back to keep him in focus. 

“That last condition is not negotiable. Do. You. Understand.”

Sherlock stares down at him. “I can’t leave you alone to make a chemical weapon. You have to know that.”

Moriarty steps back, tilts his head, and considers him closely. After a moment, he throws his hands up in the air. “All right, fine. How about this. I’ll drop the skin stuff. There’s no money in it anyway. It will never be used or produced again. Case closed, you’ve got your result. That’s if…” He holds up a single finger, and then points it slowly at Sherlock’s face. “…If you never see or talk to Johnny Boy again. Now. Do we have a deal?”

All the color leaves Sherlock’s face. He opens his mouth to speak, but produces no sound. He snaps his mouth shut and looks to John, a pleading look in his eyes. He starts to shake his head slowly. “I…I don’t…”

John steps forward. “Do we have your word, Moriarty?”

“What?” Sherlock whispers.

“Your word. We end this,” he says, waving a hand between his body and Sherlock’s. “And you never use that shit again. You never sell it, you never release the formula. You agree to that.”

Moriarty grins. “You have my word. You’ll know if I cheat anyway, right? So yes, Doctor Watson. It ends today. I’ll eat the formula myself.”

“John, no,” Sherlock whispers, beginning to sway where he stands.

John points a steady finger at Moriarty’s face. His face is furious, determined.

“Promise not to hurt him.”

Moriarty stares back at him.

“You heard me. Promise not to hurt him. He goes on with his work and you leave him the hell alone.” 

Moriarty starts to laugh, but it fades when he looks between the two of them. Finally, he nods. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“I _promise_ not to hurt him.”

“In any way.”

Moriarty nods sharply, once. “Yes.”

John carefully does not look at Sherlock as he straightens back to attention and nods once back in acknowledgment. “Then your conditions are met, Mr. Moriarty.”

Sherlock falls to his knees and covers his face with his hands. Moriarty looks down at him with curiosity. He starts to reach out toward him, but pulls back when John growls. He considers the slumping figure before him a beat longer, and then turns to John.

“Say your goodbyes, gentlemen. If you exchange a single word after you leave this building, the deal is off. I’ll burn this country to the ground, soldiers, women, children and all. And gentlemen…” He pantomimes holding a pair of binoculars to his eyes. “I’ll know.” 

John’s expression is fierce. “We know, you bastard. Now get out.”

Moriarty steps back and looks at the two a moment longer as a victorious smile creeps across his face. “Yes, I’d best be off. Bye now! And Sherlock, catch you later.”

John clears his throat. “No, you won’t.”

“Hmph. Sore loser,” Moriarty says, turning crisply on his heel to stride to the door and out.

John immediately runs to Sherlock’s side and falls to his knees in front of him, grabbing one of his hands. “Sherlock. You all right?” He ducks his head to catch Sherlock’s eye. “God, you look…Sherlock.” John slides a gentle hand into his hair. “Talk to me.”

Sherlock slowly reaches up to take John’s wrist. His eyes are red, and a few tears streak his cheeks.

“I was going to do it,” Sherlock whispers. “I was going to make you think I didn’t care and wanted you to leave. Then I saw you with that bomb and that bastard said he was going to…and I couldn’t. I just couldn’t let you go.”

“Sherlock.” John whispers, before placing a kiss on his forehead. “It’s all right, hmmm? You’ll be all right.”

Sherlock looks searchingly into John’s face. Finally, he speaks, his voice cracking. “I heard it, John. Did you know you could hear it?

John gently wipes the tears from Sherlock’s face. “Hear what?”

“You can hear a heart break, John. You said his conditions…his conditions were met, and I _heard_ it, heard the crack.” He shakes his head slowly, his eyes never leaving John’s face. “I didn’t know it was _literal_ , John. But I heard it. I heard my own heart break.” He lowers his head once again. “It’s the worst sound, John,” he whispers.

John pulls Sherlock’s head in against his shoulder, and leans his cheek against him. His eyes are squeezed closed and his face is full of loss.

“I know, love,” he whispers.

XXXXX

The sunlight is overly bright the next morning, as John walks slowly toward the small jet on the runway. He stops at the top of the stairs and turns for one quick last glance around, before his gaze is arrested by a lone figure at the edge of the runway. Sherlock stands there in his dress whites, eyes forward, tall, at full attention.

John stares at him for a long minute, and then boards the plane.

Sherlock blinks once, slowly, as the metal door slams. Otherwise he remains motionless as the plane taxis, takes off, and flies away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I will ever be able to thank 221bJen and EnduringChill enough for their brilliant betaing and caring support. It's always my goal to either make them laugh, or break their hearts. I mean, don't blame them for stuff, they're really lovely people. It's not their fault I'm evil.
> 
> Also massive wine-soaked hugs to Kedgeree, who has put up with some (okay, much) behind the scenes whining. If you are not reading her Fantasy Island fusion, you are doing it wrong.


	6. Hearts of Darkness and Light, Part 2b of 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Months after the pool, an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second half of the second episode of this 3-episode arc. (Did you follow that? Congratulations! Here's your A+ in Maths.)

It’s raining hard as Sherlock, in running shorts and a t-shirt, runs up the steps and through the entrance of his office building.

**-Voiceover-**  
**Life, as they say, goes on, no matter how much you think it won’t. Can’t. I woke up the morning after the pool desolate and devastated. My eyes still saw, my ears still heard, I still breathed. It was hell, and I accepted it as my due. Still, four hours later, I had solved a major smuggling case. I kept on.**

**Drugs beckoned, and I won’t deny I was tempted. At least twice I actually left the flat to go find my dealer, but I held myself back. I can’t pretend it was moral considerations that kept me clean; I was afraid of what might happen if I allowed my shields to drop. I wasn’t afraid to die, but I thought there was a chance that if my defenses were down, I might give in and contact John. I couldn’t let my weakness be the cause of his demise.**

**So, I ran. Obsessively. Miles and miles, morning and night, until exhaustion numbed me to the point I could work. Sometimes I could even sleep, only then dreaming of the depths in ocean blue eyes. I told anyone who asked that I was training for a marathon. The way my days stretched out before me, bleak and featureless, it didn’t feel far from the truth.**

**Amazingly, Moriarty kept his word. We never saw those burns again. I heard through the grapevine that he kept fulfilling his government contracts, earning the obsequious approval of admirals and an obscene amount of money. He did start keeping a lower profile; those poker tournaments faded away. I imagined him in every shadow for a while, but he never approached me. I assumed he was watching me, and so I never did anything to interest him.**

**I asked Mycroft to let me know when John arrived home in England safely, and he did, with a surprising amount of discretion and subtlety. I didn’t hear John’s name again for ten empty months.**

Sherlock enters his office, and shakes off the water with a mild grimace. Wiggins hands him a towel and a cup of coffee, and Sherlock thanks him with a nod.

“Good run, sir?” Wiggins asks. “Come across any water snakes out there?”

Sherlock smirks. “Barely a soul on the streets. I love the rainy season. Keeps the hobbyists away.”

Wiggins shrugs. “As you say, sir. Far be it from me to question the sanity of a superior officer.”

Sherlock snorts. “What’s on, then?”

“Aide dropped a file off for you, sir,” says Wiggins. “Said it was important. Someone is supposed to come by to brief you soon. You might consider, you know, getting dressed. Sir.”

Sherlock crosses to his desk and picks up the file. He opens it and starts reading, casually at first, but after a moment his eyes widen and he starts flipping through the file with agitation. He grows pale, and reaches a hand to his desk for support.

“Wiggins. What…Who…Did they say who would be coming by?”

“No, sir, just to make sure you knew this was urgent.” Wiggins takes a step closer. “Um…you all right, sir? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Sherlock is drawing in a deep breath to answer as the door opens to admit a petite figure in a tan trench coat under a dripping black umbrella.

“Bloody hell!” A well modulated woman’s voice with an English accent rings out. “That is some _serious_ rain out there.” The woman sounds confident and thoroughly amused. She closes the umbrella and leans it against the wall, and then turns to assess the office. Nodding to Wiggins, she crosses the few steps to Sherlock’s desk.

“Lieutenant Commander Holmes?” she asks pleasantly. “A pleasure. I’m Commander Mary Morstan, Royal Navy Intelligence. I’ve been sent to brief you. We need your help.” She steps back to look him up and down for a moment, and then leans in closer, eyes twinkling. “Nice legs,” she whispers, conspiratorially.

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-**  
**I saw British Naval Intel reports in that file, and for a moment, I hoped…well, no matter. Commander Morstan was glad for Wiggins’ offer of a towel from my stash and a cup of reasonably warm American coffee while I excused myself to the head to change clothes and put myself together.**

**Maybe…maybe she knew of John. She could have news. I would have been glad for any word. Any word at all.**

Sherlock walks back into the room, uniformed, coiffed, and composed. Commander Morstan acknowledges him a nod and tips her head toward the adjoining conference room. “Let’s talk.”

They sit at the table. Morstan rifles through a folder and slides some pages across to Sherlock.

“British Intel is tracking a new strain of heroin that’s just recently started showing up in Europe. It started slowly, but the volume has really picked up lately, and frankly, we’re very concerned. This stuff is high grade, very pure, and incredibly addictive.” She shrugs. “It kills.”

Sherlock considers the pathology reports in front of him. “Yes, I see. Hmmm. How long were these samples taken after presentation?”

“Forty-five minutes, but at least three of the victims, the top three there, had taken the drug by injection five hours prior.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “But…that’s not right.” He turns the next page. “These mass spec results show almost no degradation of the molecule. It’s still acting like heroin. It should have broken down into morphine hours before.” He looks up to meet Morstan’s impressed gaze. “If the morphine phase was proportionally long, these people would have been high for days.”

Morstan nods. “But they died. You see our problem, then. You get that heroin feeling for hours on this shit, instead of minutes. Addiction rates with regular heroin are…”

“Twenty percent of those who try it,” Sherlock cuts in. “But this will be far, far harder to resist.” Sherlock flips through the papers before him. “But where is it coming from…oh.” He pulls out a map of the British Isles. “These are the ports where it’s been found? Not the usual, I see.”

Morstan nods. ”As far as we can tell, the poppies are grown in Afghanistan, but it’s purified and altered somewhere else. Such as Vietnam.”

Sherlock frowns and looks back to the data. “This is a _lot_ of heroin. You’d need a well organized network to get this much raw material through. Warehouses. Traffickers. You’d need chemists and techs for the stabilization process. And the storage would have to be rigidly temperature controlled. Whatever this molecule is, it’s not going to like being stressed.”

Morstan smiles. “You know, you’ve gotten more from these reports in five minutes than our guys did in two weeks.” She leans back in her chair. “Will you help us?”

Sherlock nods absently as he continues to read through the reports. “Of course, Commander. How did you know to ask me?”

“Oh, your reputation precedes you, here and abroad, Lieutenant Commander. You led the team that stopped those horrible chemical weapons, right? My fiancée told me all about it.”

“Fiancée?” Sherlock asks, distracted by a map. “Do I know him?”

“Oh yes, he worked with you. I’m sure you remember him. John Watson?”

Sherlock freezes, but Morstan seems not to notice.

“May I call you Sherlock?” she continues, brightly.

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-**  
**I wanted to hate her. My _God_ , I was jealous. But her hands had touched him, and now those fingers returned my salute. Her mouth had kissed him, and now that tongue gave her voice. It was more than I had ever thought to have again. If you’re starving, your mouth starts watering with the barest mention of food. You can almost imagine how good something tastes.**

**Though you’re still starving, of course.**

**I couldn’t ask for any details. It wouldn’t have been appropriate, all things considered, but I also couldn’t risk word of my interest getting back to Moriarty. What little she let slip here or there as we started working together was devastating enough. John was working as a medical analyst for MI5, monitoring troop injury statistics for evidence of new chemical and biological weapons. He seemed glad to have a desk job. He had been…unwell when she first met him. He was reluctant to talk about it, but she had assumed it was related to his sniper injury. In any event, he had gradually brightened as they started dating. The courtship had been quick, surprisingly so, but then they weren’t getting younger, and so on.**

**They were going to get married in a month. She was happy.**

**I had been desperate for word of him, and now I had it. He was well, he was loved, and he had moved on.**

**It had to be enough.**

Mary stretches and rubs her eyes. “Christ, I’m tired.”

“Jet lag,” he says, still tracing routes on the map in front of him. “Takes a while to get over.”

“No, it’s not that, you machine. Come on, let’s call it for tonight. We’ve been at it for fourteen hours today.”

Sherlock looks up and blinks. “Fourteen hours? What time is it?”

“Twenty-two hundred. Did you eat today?”

“I…I don’t remember.” He frowns. “I must have.”

“Well, I’m hungry, and I won’t sleep well if I don’t eat something. Coming?”

He shakes his head. “No, thank you. I think I’ll try to get a run in before bed.”

“Tonight? Wait, weren’t you wearing running clothes this morning?”

“Mmmm. Yes. But I’m in training…”

“For a marathon, I know. Wiggins told me. He thinks you’re insane.”

Sherlock quirks a half smile and starts to gather his papers. “There he goes, questioning the lucidity of a superior officer again. I should have him court martialed.”

“You could keel haul him.”

“I’ll just make him walk the plank.”

Mary smiles. “You know, there are other forms of exercise. Your muscles might like a new challenge. Some of them are even indoors.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I like running. It lets me think about things. Cases.”

“You know, there’s a lovely pool in the rec hall. You could…”

“ _No_.”

She blinks, taken aback at his vehemence.

He musters a weak smile. “I mean, I’m not a swimmer. I…don’t like getting wet.”

She cocks a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re running long distances in Vietnam during the monsoon season.”

He affects a light air, making a brushing off gesture. “It’s different.” He doesn’t meet her eyes.

She continues to steal glances at him as they each prepare to leave. Finally, he gestures to the door.

“After you, Commander.”

“Good night, Sherlock.” She hesitates, but then reaches out to gently touch his arm. “Get some sleep.”

He blinks, and then smiles. “I’ll try. Rest well, Mary.”

XXXXX

“Sir? We’ve got something interesting.” Wiggins hangs up the telephone and comes around his desk. “Aerial surveillance picked up a lot of traffic going into this area…” He rolls a map out across Sherlock’s desk and draws a circle with a red pen. “…Here. It’s the middle of nowhere. Nothing there but a bunch of roads and a couple of warehouses.”

Sherlock thoughtfully taps a long finger across his lips. “Hmmm. That’s the same region where we cornered that smuggling chain. That was before your time.” He traces a long finger across the map, from the red circle to a black dot at the edge of the ocean. He repeats the action a few times, to different ports. “It’s a perfect staging point, equidistant to all the major ports.” He raises his head. “Who owns the warehouses?”

“That’s just it, sir. We do.”

Sherlock frowns. “Who? The Navy?”

“Yup. I mean, yes, sir.” Wiggins hands Sherlock a file. “Leased a decade ago, but never used for official business.”

“Well. That’s…intriguing.” Sherlock looks up and grins. “Feel like a ride in the countryside?”

“Hell, yeah. Beats working.”

“You’ll go far with that attitude, Lieutenant.” Sherlock stands and reaches for his jacket. “Assemble the usual characters and make sure they’re armed. Oh, and call Commander Morstan. I have a feeling this might be our breakthrough.”

XXXXX

A large personnel truck and two beige sedans screech into the gravel that passes for a parking lot around a large warehouse. Several men are unloading crates from a rusted container truck onto the loading dock of the warehouse. They are startled when several men in camouflage and carrying automatic machine guns jump from the personnel truck. The soldiers start yelling in Vietnamese and French, motioning the men back toward the building. The men quickly cooperate.

Greg Lestrade and Wiggins, also in camouflage, jump from the front seat of one of the sedans. Sherlock steps out of the other at a more sedate pace.

Sherlock nods in greeting to Greg, and then frowns as he looks around. “Wiggins, did you reach Commander Morstan?”

“Yes, sir. I called her office twice, and she called me back just as we were leaving. She said she couldn’t make it, had a high level briefing she couldn’t get out of. But she did ask for you to keep her personally informed, sir.”

“Did she.” Sherlock looks briefly perplexed, but then shrugs. “All right.” He starts to walk toward the building, stopping every few feet to look closely at a tire track, a broken branch, or seemingly nothing at all. Greg and Wiggins follow closely behind, Greg looking resigned and Wiggins baffled. They all finally reach the building and trot up the stairs in single file to the loading dock.

One of the soldiers walks over, carrying a clip board. “All locals, sir. Joe says he knows a couple of these men from the base. They do odd jobs. Says they’re good guys.”

Sherlock nods toward the clip board. “Manifests?”

“Yes, sir.” He hands Sherlock the clip board. “Coffee, sir. Ground, not beans.”

“Ah. Excellent.” Sherlock smirks. “I love a good coffee shipment.”

Wiggins looks confused. As Sherlock moves toward where the local men are gathered, he holds back and leans over to Greg. “Sorry, but coffee, sir?”

“The scent confuses sniffer dogs. Gets drugs through ports.”

“Oh. That makes sense, I guess.”

Greg gestures after Sherlock and they start to follow. Sherlock is talking animatedly with one of the men in French. After a minute, Sherlock smiles and nods. He looks to Greg and tips his head toward the door.

The three enter the doorway, which opens into the core of the warehouse. Wiggins fumbles for a moment, but manages to find a light switch. The light flares to illuminate tall stacks of large crates, several hundred in total. Greg whistles.

“That…is a shit ton of coffee.”

“Splendid!” Sherlock grins and rubs his hands in enthusiasm. “Who brought the ax?”

XXXXX

Several of the soldiers are hauling crates or prying off lids at Wiggins’ direction. Sherlock kneels next to one opened crate and lets a handful of coffee run between his fingers. He stands and shines the beam of a flashlight across the numerous remaining stacks of untouched crates. A look of mystified concentration comes over his face.

“Just coffee so far, Sherlock,” Greg says, coming up beside him. “Sitting in crates in a warehouse in the middle of nowhere. Doesn’t make any sense.”

Sherlock hums a distracted sound of agreement. He continues to move his flashlight slowly back and forth across the crates.

Greg looks at him, and then at the crates. “Is there…do you see something?”

“I…don’t…know,” Sherlock says slowly. “There’s something…I can just…OH!” His face lights up. “Wait…oh, that is clever.” He shakes his head, as if in admiration. He leans over and passes one index finger along the corner of a crate, and then another. “Did the local man say anything more about the timing of the shipments?”

“No, no, just that they’d been unloading for four days and there had been a lot of trucks.”

“Right.” Sherlock nods toward the crates. “All right. Look at them. Really look.”

Greg squints at the crates. “What am I looking at?”

“Do you not see it?”

Greg squints a little harder. “Um, nope.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “God. How long have we worked together? _Look_. Look at the construction of the crates.”

“They’re…square. Wood. Well made.”

Sherlock snorts and shakes his head in mock disgust. “I have no idea how you can find a landing pad.”

“Hey. I do just fine without you and your magic all-seeing flashlight.” Greg punches him on the arm. “Seriously. What do you see?”

“Wiggins!” Sherlock calls out, as if in answer. “Get me some spray paint. You,” he says, pointing at one of the soldiers. “Grab an ax and come with me. Open the ones I mark, and be careful about it.”

“Sherlock, “ Greg says, exasperated, “Mind filling us in?”

“The screws, Lestrade. Look at the screws!” Wiggins brings him a can, and with a flourish, he marks an X on the front of a crate.

XXXXX

Mary Morstan gestures toward the pieces of wood on the conference table, and shakes her head. “You figured this out from the reflection of your pocket torch off the screws on the crates.”

Sherlock nods. “Two different textures, so made of different composites. Each crate used only one single type, though, so I deduced that they had been made in different locations. I focused on the less shiny ones, which were mostly located in the back of the stacks. They had been delivered early, you see.”

Mary leans over and traces her fingers down a long channel set into the wood of one of the boards. “And the drugs were hidden in these channels?”

“Yes, Commander.” Sherlock is unable to completely repress a satisfied grin. “Very pure, very clean, very powerful heroin.”

Mary leans back, smiling, and claps him on the back. “Bloody hell, Sherlock. That’s…extraordinary.” She looks back at the table, shaking her head in wonder, and so misses the brief wince of pain across his face.

He clears his throat and looks down. The smile has left his face. “Thank you, Commander,” he says quietly.

She nods. “Right. Any sign of the other chemicals? Or any indication of where the raw stuff was headed?”

“No, Commander.” Sherlock shakes his head ruefully. “Nothing there besides coffee and heroin. The workers didn’t know anything. We picked up a couple of port seamen who were paid to look the other way while the trucks were being loaded, but they weren’t told anything past when to take their cigarette breaks. There are no final destinations on the manifests, but besides that, everything is clean. Small importers, no previous histories, everything on the up and up except…”

“The crates.” Mary turns and walks through the door of the conference room to stand at Sherlock’s desk. Frowning, she considers the mess of papers and twine above his desk. After a minute, she purses her lips and shakes her head slowly.

“Commander?”

“This doesn’t fit, it just doesn’t.” She points to a map. “There isn’t a local person big enough to handle this kind of distribution. The only guy who would have the money is Moriarty, and he doesn’t have the connections. Besides, everything official we have on him says he’s clean.”

Sherlock’s face goes carefully blank, and he stays silent. She glances at him out of the corner of his eye, and nods.

“Unofficially, this doesn’t fit his MO. He doesn’t invest this much in one project. He’s too smart to risk the exposure, and he’s never gone across borders. If he’s involved in this, it’s only as a subcontractor, and that’s _certainly_ not his style.” She sighs. “I’m glad the drugs are out of circulation, but we still don’t have any answers.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Wiggins is looking at the screws. At the very least, if we can trace where they were fabricated, that might narrow it down.”

Mary nods in approval. “All right. Let me know what he finds. I’m going to talk to some of my own contacts. You never know.”

XXXXX

Sherlock sits on the sofa in his flat in the near dark, staring at the wall.

**-Voiceover-**  
**I was missing something. Every instinct I had said that something was wrong, but God help me, I couldn’t figure out what. I couldn’t even describe the feeling I was having. I just knew I was…missing something.**

**I had a strong suspicion that working with Commander Morstan was clouding my faculties. My emotions regarding her were complicated. She was good at her job, and honestly, not unpleasant to be around. But more than that, of course, I knew John had chosen her, so that made me predisposed to like her. As to why I trusted her, I had no idea.**

A confident knock on the door breaks his concentration. “Sherlock? It’s Mary. Are you home?”

Sherlock rises and opens the door. “Commander. Please. Come in.”

She pushes by him, nodding her thanks. “Sorry to bother you at home, but I needed to talk to you right away. Put on some tea, I think we’re getting close.”

XXXXX

“I saw Wiggins’ report on the screws, and two of the names on the list rang bells. This man, here…” She slides a picture across the table. “The name is Drebber. He has a close cousin who has done time in America for possession and distribution. I can’t prove a connection, but that man was imprisoned at San Quentin at the same time as three members of the Marquez family gang.”

Sherlock nods. “The Marquez family has deep pockets and a reputation for playing big. They’re opportunists, and they’re not afraid to go international, either.”

“Nope,” Mary agrees. “That mess in Peru may never be cleared up. Our person of interest has a large factory in Hanoi. He’s never been implicated in anything more than money laundering, and it may be a reach, but…”

“Worth checking out.” Sherlock nods. “What about the other name?”

“This one is trickier.” She slides a second photo across. “These are two brothers, Edward and Robert Waters.”

Sherlock studies the picture. “Third generation American. Name changed when the grandparents immigrated?”

Mary nods. “Just so. The parents are successful shop owners in Los Angeles. The brothers went to college, stumbled around a bit, and then moved back to Vietnam, making noise about wanting to serve the homeland.”

Sherlock snorts. “Cocaine or electronics?

“Both, we think, and God knows what else.” She pushes over the rest of the file. “They’ve built a complex deep in the jungle…here.” She indicates an inland point on the map. “Inaccessible as hell. They’ve got connections, though. They seem to have some unofficial protection from both the government and the rebels, and we’ve intercepted some vague communications from China as well.”

“Yes, well, I’ve always said bribery is the highest yield industry in Southeast Asia,” Sherlock says vaguely. He considers the map closely. “If we are going to check this out, we should send a small surveillance team in under cover. Anything official would probably be greeted with tea, bland smiles, and well scrubbed floors. You don’t build this remotely because you want the neighbors dropping by. They’ll see us coming.”

Mary nods and smiles. “Agreed. Line up your team and get out there. I’ll check out our friend in Hanoi. And Sherlock…” Her face grows serious. “Let’s keep this as quiet as possible. We don’t want to tip our hand.”

Sherlock nods. “As you say, Commander.”

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-**  
**As Shakespeare should have said: Perfidy, thy name is woman.**

Sherlock stands in fatigues, his face dirty and bloodied. Around him, on the ground, are the three other members of his team, obviously dead of gunshot wounds. Sherlock is staring at someone in front of him. He slowly raises his hands in surrender.

The light of a laser sight appears on Sherlock’s forehead.  He closes his eyes.

“Lestrade. Where is he?”

Sherlock’s eyes stay closed. He licks his lips before speaking in a strained voice. “He’s…he’s on patrol. He’ll be out for another two days. He doesn’t know about this mission. No one does.”

Mary takes a step closer. Her gun hand is steady, and the laser dot doesn’t move at all. “Wiggins?”

Sherlock swallows. “Off duty. He was highly disappointed.”

“Ah. Irony.” She tilts her head and considers him coldly. “And you haven’t been in touch with John at all since the pool, have you,” she says flatly. “Moriarty said you haven’t, but I need to be sure. Tell me. Does John know I’m here?”

“He doesn’t know. Mary, please. Please don’t hurt him,” he says, voice cracking.

There’s a smile in her voice now. “I know. I won’t.”

Sherlock smiles back with relief, eyes still closed. “Thank you,” he says.

“I’ll take good care of him for you. Don’t…you…worry.”

The light trails down his face and body, slow as a caress. When it reaches his lower chest, we hear a loud gunshot. Everything goes dark.

XXXXX

Sherlock’s eyes slowly flicker open, and he blinks, dry eyed and confused. After a moment, he appears to register the whiteness of the walls of his hospital room. The beeps of the heart monitors start to come more rapidly as he carefully lifts his head. A shadow crosses his bed, and his brother Mycroft slowly comes into focus.

“Yes, you’re alive. Not in hell, which was no doubt your first thought when you saw me.” Mycroft, pale but otherwise composed, holds the straw from a white styrofoam cup up to Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock sips, gingerly, and then drops his head back to the pillow. He tries to speak, stops, clears his throat, and tries again. “Team,” he finally croaks.

Mycroft pinches his lips together and shakes his head regretfully. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He pauses before continuing in a soft voice, as his eyes search his brother’s face. “Did you see who did this?”

Sherlock hesitates, but then slowly shakes his head just once.

Mycroft looks at him closely, but Sherlock looks away before closing his eyes. After a moment, Mycroft nods, a knowing look on his face. He turns to pull up a chair, and perches at the bedside.

“You’ve been in hospital for six days, true coma for three. You sustained a single gunshot wound to the left upper abdominal quadrant, resulting in a severe laceration of the spleen and collateral damage to the pancreas. Your renal vein was narrowly spared. Your left lung was also damaged and eventually collapsed, but fortunately, with all the running of late…” Mycroft gave him a small humorless smile. “Your right lung was able to compensate for longer than one might expect. Nonetheless, you are extremely fortunate that your Lieutenant Wiggins is a curious sort who doesn’t follow orders well. He was waiting for you at the rendezvous point when he heard the shot, and so found you and your team fairly quickly. He didn’t see anyone else, and further investigations have not been…fruitful.”

Sherlock nods briefly. He frowns down at the bandages wrapped around his chest, and sighs. Mycroft blinks away a brief tightening of his eyes, and quickly looks down at his hands where they are closely clasped in his lap.

“You’re not telling me something,” Sherlock rasps. “What is it?”

Mycroft lifts his head to meet his gaze with an expression of benign surprise. He starts to shake his head, but then stops and takes a second to pinch the bridge of his nose. Sherlock’s eyes flare with concern.

“There is…something,” Mycroft says to his hands. “The doctors said…but I…that is to say, you…”

The pips marking Sherlock’s heartbeat start to come a bit more rapidly as he regards his brother. “You’re…nervous? No, upset. You don’t get upset.” He moves to pull himself up in bed, but is interrupted by a pained coughing fit. After he regains his breath, he reaches again for the railing.

Mycroft jumps to stop his movement. “No, no. Wait, I’ll just…” He grabs the bedside controls and raises the head of the bed a few degrees. Sherlock winces, but quickly shakes it off and refocuses on his brother.

“Tell me.”

Mycroft won’t meet his eyes, and Sherlock stares at him for a long minute. “For God’s sake, Mycroft, what is it?” he finally whispers.

Mycroft sighs, resigned. “I’m not supposed to upset you, but I think you should know. Sherlock, John Watson is dead.”

The heart monitor skips a beat. The next two come too rapidly, and a warning light starts to flash. Sherlock’s face is white against the sheets, his face a mask of shock. “How?” he manages to whisper.

“He apparently volunteered for a reconnaissance mission. A true man of action, it would seem, despite his calling,” Mycroft says quietly. “A factory in Leeds. British Naval Intelligence apparently had reason to believe it might be a front for a large narcotics distribution network. It is my understanding that they expected to find only documents at best.”

Sherlock’s hand curls tightly around the bed rail. “Was it…do you…”

Mycroft frowns. “I do not know if the raid was connected with your investigation of the moment. Your mission and his were both classified as confidential, and none of the officials involved is willing to speak off the record. I find that telling. In any event, all I could find...” He stops to take a deep breath before continuing. “The building was rigged to explode ninety seconds after being breached.” He stops and sighs, his face sad and resigned. “The entire team was lost.”

Sherlock is frozen, eyes wide and unseeing in horror. For some time, the only sound in the room is the panicky beeping of the monitors. Mycroft’s fingers twitch as he tentatively starts to reach for Sherlock’s hand, but then he stops and stares at him for a moment before again lowering his gaze. “Sherlock,” he says finally. “I can see you are distressed by this news. I am…truly sorry. He must have been a good friend to you.”

Sherlock jerks at his words as if shocked. He looks to the ceiling as he attempts to blink back tears.

“He was _extraordinary_ ,” Sherlock whispers.

Mycroft’s eyes widen with surprise. “Of course,” he murmurs.

They sit in silence for several minutes.

Finally, Mycroft speaks. “This war is lost,” he says quietly, but with certainty. “So much has been wasted, and without reason.” He tilts his head to the side, thoughtful. “A war lost in good cause can be noble, but this is not that war.”

He stands and puts both hands on the bed railing, still looking down and away from Sherlock’s face. “In any event, wise men know when it is time to retreat. This battle has claimed enough of you.” He straightens and draws in a determined breath, meeting Sherlock’s eyes at last.

“Resign your commission. I have secured a situation in a quiet spot in Hawaii. Come with me. There is a place for you there.” He leans in, drawing near to Sherlock’s ear. “Come with me, little brother,” he whispers. “We will find our way together.”

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-**  
**I will always think he was worth it.**

Back in the guest house, Sherlock reopens his eyes. He looks to the window, where the darkened sky is now touched with the promise of sunrise. He sighs deeply and wipes his eyes before gingerly rising and stretching.

He trudges to his bedroom. After a minute, he reemerges, dressed now in a t-shirt and athletic shorts. By the front door, he crouches to pull on and tie a pair of running shoes.

Through the faint silver-grey of early dawn, he walks down the circular driveway, past the main house and across the lawn to the gate at the edge of the property.

He secures the catch behind him, and turns to consider the ocean. At this early hour, it lacks even the slightest hint of blue.

Resigned, Sherlock slowly starts running down the faintly gold-streaked beach.

**-Cue Credits-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 221bJen and EnduringChill are dear friends and skilled betas. I'm not just being nice when I say they are some of the most creatively gifted people I've ever known. I'm so grateful to them for giving me great ideas. They've made this fic immeasurably better. If anything sucks, it's all me.
> 
> Special gratitude to Mydwynter, who helped me through a tough spot while tactfully not calling me out for comma usage (mostly because I'm right). Also, cheers to Mazarin221b, the godmother of this fic, who also loves commas.


	7. Hearts of Darkness and Light, Part 3 of 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A greatly feared enemy from the past comes to haunt Sherlock again. Can he be stopped? And at what cost?

**-Voiceover-  
****In times of stress or strife, humans find comfort and meaning in ritual. I was coming off a trying time, with several challenging cases back to back, and Mycroft inexplicably in unrelieved residence at the estate. But finally, the cases had all been brought to heel by my usual combination of perseverance and inspiration, and Mycroft had been tempted away by a polo tournament on the mainland. Things were looking up, as they say, but I still found my soul in need of succor.**

**All this to say, I was having tea with Mrs. Hudson one afternoon.**

“Thank you again for the biscuits, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson says, smiling, as she pours the milk. “It’s ever so lovely to get a taste of home. I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble.”

“Nothing is too much trouble if it brings you pleasure,” Sherlock says gallantly.

She snorts, unladylike. “I agree, Mycroft most likely won’t miss them.”

He grins and takes his cup with a nod of thanks. “I left him the other box. He’ll be fine.”

She laughs and settles back into her chair. “You’re in fine spirits, dear. What’s the occasion?”

“Three cases successfully settled in a week. I’ve signed a contract to monitor the big poker tournament in Honolulu for cheating next weekend, for a ridiculously large sum of money. And best of all, Mycroft won’t be back from Los Angeles for another…” He consults his watch. “Six days, nine hours, and twenty-eight minutes, roughly.”

“Oh dear, your poor brother, among the barbarians.”

“Well, I’m not sure how many barbarians there will be at a polo tournament. They tend to be a cultured bunch, even in California.”

“I don’t know, Sherlock. That divot replacing can get violent at times.”

“Well, one can only hope,” he says cheerfully.

Mrs. Hudson grins and takes another sip of her tea, considering him over the edge of her cup. She replaces it in the saucer and looks to the soft dog in her lap. “I thought maybe you’d met someone,” she remarks casually, carefully not making eye contact. “Victor was just saying last night how nice it would be if you’d find a special someone.”

Sherlock’s grin shifts to something quieter, but still warm. “Victor shouldn’t worry. I’m quite content.”

“He believes ‘content’ and ‘happy’ aren’t the same thing.”

He lifts a playful eyebrow. “A new relationship would cut into my walking time. Victor would never stand for it.”

Mrs. Hudson sighs. “Why won’t you even try, Sherlock? You could be so good for someone.” 

His grin fades, but he still regards her warmly. Leaning over, he places his large hand on top of where hers rests on the dog’s back.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson. I appreciate your concern, but….”

The telephone in the kitchen rings. Mrs. Hudson scoops Victor out of her lap and places him on the floor before scurrying through the bamboo curtain. Victor looks around sleepily, and then walks over to lie down next to Sherlock’s feet. He puts his chin on the toe of Sherlock’s shoe and sighs contentedly as his eyes droop closed. Sherlock regards the dog fondly, but there is a hint of sadness around his eyes.

“Oh yes, he’s here, how did you…fine, I’ll just…are you all right, dear? Only you sound…all right, all right, hold on just a moment…” She pokes her head through the curtain. “Sherlock? It’s Molly for you, and she’s in quite a state.”

Sherlock gently slides his foot out from under the dog’s now heavy head. He strides quickly through the curtain and takes the handset from Mrs. Hudson with a quick wink of thanks.

“Molly? How did you…Wait. Take a deep breath. You’re not making any sense. Right. Now try again…. _What_?” Sherlock’s voice takes on a tone of disbelief. “No. It couldn’t have been. You’re imagining…” His brow starts creasing more and more as he listens. “NO.” Mrs. Hudson watches with increasing concern as Sherlock’s face abruptly drains of all color. After another few seconds of listening his knees start to buckle, and he braces himself with a hand against the wall. “Wait, you what?” Another few seconds, and he looks up. His face is still white, and there is a slight sheen of sweat on his brow. His eyes are glowing with a mix of fury and terror.

“Molly, we need to talk about all of this. I’ll be right there. Don’t leave. Don’t even _move_.” He hangs up, and Mrs. Hudson briefly winces as the handset hits the receiver with more force than necessary.

“What is it, dear? You look like you’ve…”

“…seen a ghost?” Sherlock shakes his head in disbelief and anger. “Oh, Mrs. Hudson. It’s worse than you know.” Then almost to himself, “She has to be wrong. She has to.” He stands and stares blindly at the floor for several long seconds.

Finally, a soft, tentative “Sherlock?” from Mrs. Hudson shocks him back to awareness.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but I…I have to go.” He pulls his keys from his pocket as he strides quickly to the door. He pulls it open, but then turns to regard her where she still stands, mystified, in the kitchen doorway.

“Mrs. Hudson…you’ll be careful, won’t you? Just…keep your eyes open.”

She nods. “I will, dear. Will you call me later? You’re rather frightening me.”

Sherlock nods, and pastes on a faint attempt at a placating smile. “I will, but everything is fine. Molly is just imagining things, is all.”

He jogs down the stairs of the porch and strides to the Ferrari where it waits at the curb. The engine roars to life. Sherlock starts to turn the wheels from the curb, but then pauses to close his eyes and take a deep breath. Then, nodding to himself, he pulls away.

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-  
** **Molly Hooper is one of the most level-headed people I know. She’s clever, loyal, and brave, and I’ve secretly considered her a friend for a long time. But what she just told me…well, I’m not sure what to think. If what she says is true, she once made a monstrous mistake. I try to respect the privacy of those around me, but this demands satisfaction.**

Sherlock strides through the kitchen of the Diogenes Club to Molly’s office. He reaches to turn the handle, but before he can touch it, Molly pulls open the door, grabs Sherlock by his outstretched arm, and yanks him into the room. The door closes firmly behind him. 

“Did you see anyone?” Molly asks. She’s calm, but very pale.

“No. I was watching, but…no.” Sherlock looks her over quickly. His eyes linger on her fingernails, which have been chewed down to the quicks. He hesitates. “Are you all right?”

“Me? Oh, I’m fine,” Molly says, forcing a smile. She walks over to the conference table and collapses into a chair. “All right, maybe not fine. But I’m OK.” She sighs. “You have questions.”

Sherlock chuffs a quiet, humorless laugh. “Yes, yes, you could say that. Shall we?”

Molly hesitates, but then lowers her eyes and nods.

“Very well.” Sherlock walks over to sit across from her. He clasps his hands on the table in front of him with deliberation and regards her closely. He takes a deep breath before beginning 

“You saw him. Today.”

Molly bites her lip and nods. “Yes.”

“Where?”

“At the airport. I was…” A slight blush tints her cheeks. “I was meeting Greg for a late lunch. He was just finishing up a tour, and, well. Yeah.”

Sherlock raises a surprised eyebrow. “Lestrade?”

The blush intensifies. “Yes.”

Sherlock shakes off his surprise. “Um, all right. You were waiting for Lestrade, and…”

“Then _he_ walked by, not three feet away from me.” She leans forward, urgently. “Sherlock, you have to believe me. He was as close to me as you are now. I don’t think he noticed me but it was definitely him.”

Sherlock nods, now impassive. “And you know this because…”

Molly leans back in her chair and rolls her eyes in frustration. “I told you.”

“I need to hear it again.”

“Fine. Fine. I went out with him, all right? We dated for a few weeks in Vietnam, before all the…” She makes an explosive gesture with her hands.

Sherlock flinches involuntarily.

“I hadn’t met you, or Greg, or…or John.” Sherlock sucks in an involuntary breath. Molly registers it without meeting his eyes, but her voice softens. “Look, he just seemed like a nice guy, and we met, and we hit it off.” She finally looks him in the face. “We didn’t know, Sherlock. No one did. Everyone liked Jim Moriarty.”

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-**  
 **Molly went out with Jim Moriarty a total of seven times over a period of four weeks before her instincts pinged and she ended it. She had already been assigned the burn cases when she met him. Coincidence? The universe is rarely so lazy, and Moriarty _never_ is. She broke up with him ten days before we asked her to consult with our team.**

**I didn’t ask if she was ever intimate with him, but as she told me her story, all the physical tells were there. I was torn between wanting to recommend a good therapist and ripping her office apart in rage. In the end, I did nothing. I needed more than anything for her to focus on the present.**

**I did ask her why she hadn’t recused herself from the investigation. She said that she had consulted with her CO, and after a lengthy discussion, they had agreed that, since she wasn’t directly involved with the criminal part of the investigation, her privacy and dignity could be maintained. It was a different time then, much more difficult for a woman, even a doctor, to have a successful military career. I could understand her reasoning.**

**I didn’t ask her why she didn’t tell me after...everything. I figured I already knew the answer to that. After all, a military pathologist would be well acquainted with the risks of reopening old wounds.**  

XXXXX

 

The Ferrari turns into the driveway of the Masters Estate and glides to a smooth stop in front of the mansion. Sherlock hops out of the open convertible and starts to walk briskly toward the guest house. He appears distracted, talking to himself, and nearly walks into the maid as she rushes out from the mansion to intercept him.

“Oh! Sorry, Mr. Holmes. Didn’t mean to startle you.” 

Sherlock shakes himself back to awareness and regards her with a faint smile. “No problem, Maribel, I should have been watching. How’s everything with my brother gone?”

“Oh, fine, sir, except I’ve noticed some cookies have disappeared.”

Sherlock’s eyes twinkle. “Well, as the onsite security officer, I suppose I should look into that.”

She nods, lips pressed together in mock solemnity. “Please do, sir. I’d hate to be blamed for a crime I didn’t commit.”

“He wouldn’t dare.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” She smiles openly now. “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, though, sir.”

“Oh?”

Maribel’s smile dims a bit and she blushes, suddenly embarrassed. “Um, well, it’s my mother’s birthday today, Mr. Holmes, and I was wondering…” 

Sherlock is nodding. “You’d like to leave early to visit? That’s lovely, Maribel, of course.”

“Oh, thank you, sir, but that’s not what I was going to ask. Forgive me, but money’s been a little tight for me of late…”

“Ugh, _Mycroft_ ,” Sherlock growls, teeth clenched.

“It’s fine, sir, but I was hoping, well…do you really want all of those flowers?”

Sherlock looks stunned. “Flowers? 

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-  
** **Roses, in fact. Everywhere, all over the house. Red roses, arranged artfully by the dozen in a variety of containers and in a variety of styles: modern, classic, plain, elaborate. Roses on every flat surface. A bouquet on every stair going down into the lounge. Five vases on the kitchen table alone. A glass pitcher with seashells glued on in the bathroom. A repurposed juice bottle in the refrigerator. A lined cardboard box in the closet.**

**And of course, in the bedroom. Dozens of bouquets, on the dresser, the side table, the chair. Rose petals in a trail from the door to the neatly turned-down bed, which was remarkably spared most of the leafy chaos: just a single, perfect long-stemmed rose on my pillow, atop a piece of actual parchment marked in beautiful script with just four words: “Did you miss me?”**

**The rose had thorns.**  

Sherlock and Greg stand at the top of the stairs of the guest house landing. Sherlock looks down impassively as several police officers walk around his furniture and rummage through his belongings, collecting evidence in plastic bags. Greg is fidgeting anxiously, but Sherlock is nearly motionless, his eyes carefully focused on the investigation.

“Bomb squad guys were quick,” Greg offers.

Sherlock nods absently, his eyes narrowing as one of the men lifts the skull off the coffee table.

“Find anything outside?”

Sherlock nods again. “Tire tracks of one large delivery truck. Single print of a cowboy boot, men’s size nine, in that mud by the porch. No fingerprints,” he recites with no apparent emotion.

“Cowboy boot. Damn.” Greg shakes his head. “I can’t believe it’s him, though,” he continues. “I mean, I thought he’d been barred from travel to the U.S. Didn’t Mycroft say that? Some sort of State Department blacklist, I thought.”

“He was,” Sherlock says. “He is. He must have figured out a way around it. I have to assume that the timing of Mycroft’s absence was not an accident.”

Greg’s eyes widen. “God, I didn’t even think of that! Is he all right? Have you…”

Sherlock interrupts him, still watching the officers below. “He’s fine, he’s on his way home. It will be a few hours before he’s back, though.”

“He’s not flying commercial?”

“No,” Sherlock says distantly. “Called in a favor or something.”

The two men stand and watch silently for a few more minutes. “Sherlock?” Greg finally says. “Why the roses? Why the note?”

Sherlock glances at him from the corner of his eye. “Did you never read the case file?”

“No.” Greg shakes his head. “It was locked down by the time the smoke cleared.”

“Ah. Mycroft.”

“Yeah, I assumed.”

Sherlock sighs. “Moriarty’s motives were obviously complex, but there was some suggestion of a…”

“Romantic attachment?”

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. “Well, yes. That would be one term for it.”

“I see.” They stand a bit longer, still watching the officers. “He’s certainly not subtle.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No.”

They watch for several more minutes, the silence growing weighty. Greg finally clears his throat. “John must have hated this,” he says, carefully.

Sherlock closes his eyes and bites his lip, swaying a bit where he stands. He finally nods, once. Greg registers the motion in his peripheral vision before looking away.

“Well,” Greg says, “This lunatic must have cleaned out every florist on the island.”

“Must have done,” Sherlock echoes, refocusing on the chaos below.

They watch a minute longer.

“So…why now?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I don’t know.” Frowning deeply, he adds, “I hate not knowing.”

**-Voiceover-  
** **Greg had hit on the most crucial question at hand. Why now, indeed. My brother had been dithering over attending this polo tournament for months, but the final decision had been anticlimactic. He didn’t suddenly come into free passes or extra money; he just decided he could afford the time. So if he wasn’t lured away, then we were being watched. Monitored. I found that extremely disquieting.**

**I’d have to wait until Mycroft was back for a full briefing, but over the phone he had told me that his connections hadn’t turned up notable action in any of Moriarty’s suspected arenas. After the war, he had cleared out of Southeast Asia, no doubt with subtle encouragement from Mycroft’s friends. Now he split his time between offices in Tangier and Ankara, with bi-annual visits to Sri Lanka. His international consulting firm was well-regarded, and on its own, quite profitable; his criminal activities, which were known and tolerated, were moving along at their usual quiet, effective hum. There were no political stressors in his spheres of interest, no assassinations or nascent coups. He’d long been orphaned, so there was no family drama. His appearance seemed to be on his own schedule, for his own reasons.**

**That was the most terrifying prospect of all: that in the end, all of this would prove to be purely personal.**

XXXXX

Inside, Sherlock now sits on his sofa, contemplating a particularly garish arrangement featuring a stuffed bear and a mylar balloon.

Greg sees the last of the police out, and the cruisers drive quietly away. He comes back in, goes directly to the bar, and pours two fingers of Scotch into two glasses. “You have the appearance of a man thinking serious thoughts, sir,” he says, as he hands a glass to Sherlock.

Sherlock nods his thanks. “I’m thinking about much I loathe roses.”

Greg laughs, looking around. “Cops messed your stuff up. Bet that drove you crazy to watch.”

Sherlock puts his glass down and looks up at him, suddenly tense. “I’m clean, Greg. I wasn’t afraid they’d find anything. That’s what you’re really asking, right? 

Greg tilts his head, confused. “No…but it’s always nice to hear.”

Sherlock’s face clears, and he slumps back into the couch. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just…this isn’t…it’s just a lot of pressure out of nowhere.” He waves a vague hand. “Anyway. I’m sure this won’t be the last time this room is tossed if my brother has anything to say about it.” He sighs. “Moriarty looks like a walking box of triggers. I understand the concern.”

“And are you feeling triggered?” 

Sherlock looks up, surprised. “That’s blunt.”

Greg raises his eyebrows. “Well?"

“Honestly? Nothing could possibly seem less appealing. I need my wits about me right now.” He gestures to the glass in front of him. “I’m not even going to touch that.”

Lestrade gives him a small smile of approval. “All right then, that’s that. So listen. Do you want to crash at my place tonight?”

A small smile touches Sherlock’s lips. “Will Molly be there?”

“Damn it.” Greg shakes his head, pursing his lips ruefully. “I knew you’d figure it out.” He sighs. “We’re just, you know. Trying it on a little. We’ve known each other a long time, and…”

“It’s fine, Lestrade. She’s lovely. You’re not entirely without appeal. It’s all fine.”

“Well, thanks, I guess.” Greg ducks his head. “You’re not, I don’t know, upset or anything?”

Sherlock looks at him directly for the first time. “Of course not. Why would I care?” he says incredulously, before his gaze turns back to the roses. He thinks for a moment. “Though maybe I should, now that I think about it.”

Greg makes an inquisitive noise.

“Well, if it gets serious, you won’t ever be able to break up,” Sherlock says, seriously. ”I’d have to choose between you if you did, and I’ll not have it.” He waves his hand dismissively. “So, plan wisely.”

Greg is grinning. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Sherlock yawns and stretches. “Anyway, thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll go up to the main house. I want to be here when Mycroft gets back and…” He hesitates. “…I think I should steer clear of involving you in this.”

“Sherlock…” Greg shakes his head, but Sherlock holds up a hand to stay him.

“I promise I’ll keep you informed, and I’ll call on you if I need to, all right? But Moriarty behaved himself before when I kept to myself, so that’s how I’ll start.”

“Well, I don’t like it, but all right.” Greg throws back the rest of his drink and stands. “You know the number.”

Sherlock nods. “Thanks. And Greg…”

“Yeah?”

He gestures around the room. “Take Molly some roses.”

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-  
** **I won’t deny that I was relieved to see Mycroft get home safely. He was tired, and he was hungry, but most of all he was _angry_. Some individuals previously assigned to monitoring would probably find themselves doing janitorial chores in intemperate climes before too long.**

**He didn’t have much more for me, in any event. Moriarty entered the U.S. under his real name on a tourist visa. He flew from Seoul on a direct flight to Honolulu. No one knew how he got to Seoul. No one knew why or how long he was there. No one knew a goddamned thing. Mycroft wasn’t just angry, he was livid.**

**After a long discussion that lasted into the night, we agreed that I would go about my usual business. By “we agreed,” I mean “Mycroft acknowledged he could not stop me.” It was risky, but I wasn’t going to let Moriarty drive me into seclusion. History suggested he’d be able to find me, anyway.**

**In the meantime, Mycroft would call in every favor he was due to try to come up with a way to find and track him on the island. He was hopeful. It’s a small island, after all. I suspected, though, that Moriarty wouldn’t be found until he wanted to be found. I was also fairly confident he wanted me to do the finding.**

XXXXX

The Ferrari pulls up in front of Mrs. Hudson’s apartment building and Sherlock hops out through the open top. He smooths the front of his fitted grey herringbone polo shirt and surveys the block for a full minute before picking up a small shopping bag from the front seat and moving to the front door.

**-Voiceover-  
** **Creepily obsessed, sexually fixated terrorist murderers be damned. Mrs. Hudson had asked me to water her plants, and I’d never hear the end of it if I failed in my duties.**

Sherlock starts to jump over the single step to the door, but he suddenly stops short. Crouching, he examines the stair from end to end, paying special attention to the edges before carefully stepping over it to the entrance. He checks the front door carefully, examining the locks, the doorknob, the wood facing and the brass kick plate at the bottom. Finally he nods, satisfied. He then pulls a large ring of keys from his pocket and unlocks the door.

**-Voiceover continues-  
** **I should be grateful that she’s never gotten into orchids. It’s a popular hobby here, especially among the expatriates, but if she starts it up, we’ll all suffer. Mycroft has tried to make a go of it, built a greenhouse and designed the perfect environment, but strangely enough the plants haven’t taken off. Pity, that.**

Just inside the door, he stoops to pick up the mail from where it has accumulated on the mat beneath the mail slot. He flips through it quickly, and then deposits it on the table in the hallway.

**-Voiceover continues-  
** **I’m sure my watering them with coffee from time to time has nothing to do with his troubles.**

Sherlock emerges from the kitchen through the bamboo curtain with a brown ceramic watering can in his hand. Frowning, he consults a list and starts pouring water into the various flowerpots and saucers.

**-Voiceover continues-  
** **Mrs. Hudson told me she was going to the North Shore on a ladies’ wellness retreat with some of her bridge cronies.**

Sherlock stops and considers a large jade plant on which a piece of white paper with a large black X is taped. He rolls his eyes, but quirks a fond half smile. He picks a brown leaf from a pot of trailing English ivy and takes a close, long look at the bud on a ginger plant. Finally, he stands back and looks around the apartment with an expression of satisfaction.

**-Voiceover continues-  
** **It’s obvious she actually went to a nudist colony, there to commune with nature with the aid of some of the local sinsemilla. Well, I suppose that’s wellness too, in its way. I’m sure she’ll still get some bridge in.**

Sherlock places the watering can on the kitchen counter. He opens the refrigerator and brightens, takes out a small cake, and eats it with relish. Then, reaching into the bag he had left on the counter, he pulls out a small stuffed toy pineapple and leaves it in front of the dog bed on the floor.

**-Voiceover continues-  
** **She’s due back in two days. She should have an excellent tan.**

Sherlock steps out onto the porch and closes and locks the door behind him. He carefully checks to make sure the door is secure and then scans the street and houses. No one is around. He nods to himself and checks the door one more time before heading down the sidewalk to the Ferrari.

He walks around the car once, twice, crouching to check under the tires, getting a good look into the tailpipe, before moving to the driver’s side. As he starts to open the door, he notes a piece of paper under the windshield wiper. Frowning, he carefully reaches over the glass to pluck it out.

Slowly, he opens the note.

_Well? Did you miss me?_

Sherlock looks up at the Mrs. Hudson’s apartment. The question on his face is abruptly answered by an audible click and a boom as the building violently explodes.

Sherlock immediately drops to shield himself behind the Ferrari, covering his head with his hands. The windshield is immediately shattered by a softball sized piece of concrete. The car’s alarm goes off, along with that of every other car on the street. Debris rains down for several long seconds, finally slowing and then stopping, leaving only thick dust and smoke. Flames start to lick at the remains of the building.

Sherlock slowly stands, and turns to survey the damage. It is strangely, suddenly silent.

**-Voiceover-  
** **Gas leak, they said. Strangest thing. Haven’t seen that in years. Thank goodness no one was home.**

******I thought of the well loved jade plant that I had been forbidden to touch.**

 **I thought of Victor’s claws clicking on the kitchen linoleum as Mrs. Hudson arranged biscuits on a plate.**

**I thought of the mornings I’d spent drinking tea on that velvet chair, wondering why the hell anyone would make a table out of a tree stump.**

**Then I tracked down Mrs. Hudson and told her I was picking her up. All she had left now was Victor and what was in her suitcase.**  

XXXXX

Sherlock is sitting on the stoop of the guest house with his arms wrapped around his knees, solemnly staring at the back side of the mansion, when Mycroft walks up.

“She’s all settled in now,” Mycroft says. "Maribel will take her shopping tomorrow."

Sherlock nods. “Did you give her the blue room?”

“No, the green, because of the…”

“Patio, right. She’ll want plants.” Sherlock looks up at his brother, a faint smile on his lips. “That was thoughtful, Mycroft. Thank you.”

Mycroft blinks in surprise. “Yes, well. She was my friend first, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Sherlock sighs. “And you weren’t the one to lead a madman to her door. You’re the golden boy.”

Mycroft hesitates, then moves to sit next to Sherlock on the step. Sherlock looks at him with curiosity, but shifts over. They sit together staring at the mansion for a few minutes.

Finally, Mycroft speaks. “She thought it was Frank at first, you know.”

“Her husband?” Sherlock’s eyes widen. “God, I didn’t even think of that.” He looks to the ground, abashed. “I should have told her she was safe.”

“That’s not the point,” Mycroft says. “She was only worried about you. Even after I reassured her about Frank, and told her who and what this was all about, all she wanted to know was what I was doing to protect you.”

“You told her everything?”

Mycroft nods.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. “A few days ago, she wanted know why I don’t have a ‘special someone.’” He wraps his arms around himself tighter and rests his cheek on his knees. “She’s so kind.”

“She loves you.”

 Sherlock slowly opens his eyes and studies his brother’s face. Mycroft is regarding him with the faintest of smiles.

“Did you tell her about the rest of it? About…about John?”

Mycroft’s eyes widen minutely and the smile fades away. He starts to speak, but stops. Finally he shakes his head.

 Sherlock nods. He straightens up and again considers the mansion.

“Promise me something, Mycroft.”

Mycroft glances at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye before he raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Take care of her.”

Mycroft sighs and looks to the ground. “Sherlock…”

“No. I’m not saying…if anything…just, you know. Take care of her.” 

Mycroft swallows hard, but finally nods, once. 

Sherlock nods back. “All right, then.” 

They go back to staring at the house.

Finally Mycroft speaks, hesitant. “Well. We should talk. About…John. And why all this--” he waves his hand toward the guest house. "--is happening now."

Sherlock flinches. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for that.”

 Mycroft bites his lip and slowly nods. “I…understand.” He looks away. “We don’t have really have that type of relationship. But…”

Sherlock huffs. “It’s not that,” he interrupts. “I just…can’t discuss him with anyone.” His voice is suddenly thick. He looks briefly to the sky, blinking hard, before he looks back to the house. “Not yet, anyway,” he says softly.

Mycroft glances at him from the corner of his eye, shifting uncomfortably. “I see.”

Sherlock sighs. “I know what you’re trying to do, Mycroft. I’m fine. You don’t have to worry.”

Mycroft hesitates, but then nods, resigned. “I wish you could think of him without…the other. That would be…good.”

Sherlock allows a small smile to cross his face. “It is what it is, brother. Difficult to avoid, these days.”

Mycroft chuffs a tiny laugh. “True enough.”

Sherlock sighs. “”Maybe someday.”

“Hmm.”

They continue to stare at the house.

“You need to paint. That wood trim looks atrocious.”

 “Yes.”

 They sit, each lost in their own thoughts, as twilight slowly creeps in and the frogs start their nightly chorus.

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-  
** **I knew Moriarty would send another message soon. I didn’t anticipate the messenger.**

Sherlock is perched on one of the sofas in the living room of the mansion, reading. In the next room, the telephone rings. He looks up from his book briefly and frowns, then goes back to reading. After a few more rings, it goes silent, but after a minute it starts up again.

This time, it is answered. Maribel pokes her head through the door. “Oh! Didn’t know you were in here, Mr. Holmes. Um, telephone, sir.”

Sherlock puts aside his book and unfolds from the couch. “On my brother’s line?”

“Yes, sir. A lady. She told me you’d be in here.” 

Sherlock walks to the phone, worry in his eyes. “Hello?”

“Sherlock,” a sultry voice coos. “How are you, darling?”

“Irene,” Sherlock breathes with relief. “How did you know to call here?”

A long pause. “Irene?” Another moment. “Irene? Are you there?”

“I’m here. Sherlock, dearest, listen to me very closely and do not argue, for once in your life. All right?”

“Irene, what are you…all right. Yes.”

“We need to have lunch together.”

Sherlock blinks, nonplussed. “Sorry?”

“We need to meet and have lunch. Today.”

Sherlock’s expression has quickly become one of fierce focus. “Irene. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, darling, and will continue to be so if you will agree to have lunch with me today at one PM at the Diogenes Club. Wait, wait…hold on.”

Irene’s is muffled by a hand over a handset, but he can hear her voice, if not her words. Her volume rises, and he can hear the rumbling of a male voice in her pauses. Finally, there is the sound of a slap, and then silence.

“Irene. IRENE!” Sherlock shouts into the telephone. Maribel peeks around the corner. “Find my brother,” he mouths to her. She nods and runs off quickly.

“Sorry about that, darling,” Irene says as she comes back on the line. Her voice is strained, but calm. “I’m having a…situation with a client. I must run, but tell me you’ll lunch with me? Today?” There is a tone of pleading at this last.

“I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more, “ Sherlock says grimly. 

XXXXX

There is no one at the Diogenes Club. No cars out front, and no people inside. Sherlock walks in through the unlocked front doors and stops, blinking to help his eyes adjust. There is only one of the overhead fluorescent lights on in the foyer, and the yellow haze seems to barely disrupt the shadows.

After a moment, Sherlock starts to walk forward again, slowly, turning in a circle and peering into the corners as he moves. “Hello? Irene?…Jim?”

There’s a rustle from the hallway across the room. “Oh, Sherlock,” a male voice says in a stage whisper. “I do love it when you say my name.” Moriarty steps out into the opening to the hallway, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. In the dim light, his face is mostly obscured, but his eyes shine where they are locked on Sherlock, and his teeth are white in the rictus of his exaggerated grin. The red glow of the emergency exit sign from down the hall behind him briefly gives him a demonic halo. “Oh, dearest, you haven’t changed. Not at _all_.” He cocks his head. “”Maybe a little sadder around the eyes.” He frowns, shaking his head. “Did something happen to make you sad, my angel?”

Sherlock has frozen, but now he straightens to his full height and smooths the front of his dark suit jacket. Moriarty’s eyes follow the gesture.

“Where is Irene?”

Moriarty smiles. “You never answered my question, rude bunny,” he says in a teasing tone. “So did you? Miss me?”

Sherlock’s face is emotionless. “I said, where is Irene?”

Moriarty rolls his eyes as he takes another step forward into light. “Jesus. Our big reunion scene, and the first thing you do is bring up another woman.” He stops and leers. “She’s fine, darling. She’s entertaining a friend of mine in her ridiculous factory. I’m sure they’re great friends by now.”

“Entertaining.” Sherlock’s voice is flat, but his eyes are furious.

“Oh, not like that. She’s not his type. Not at all. As a matter of fact…” Moriarty steps to a table and picks up the handset of the beige house telephone. He dials a number, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s face. “Yeah, it’s me. He’s here. You can let her go.” He listens for a few seconds. “All right. I’ll meet you there.” He licks his lips, and he looks Sherlock slowly up and down with a salacious grin. “I’ll come soon.” He hangs up and spreads his hands. “There you go. Free as a bird.”

Sherlock inclines his head in acknowledgement. “So now what?”

“Did you like the roses? You have no idea what a bother it was. It seemed like such a good idea at first, but God!” He laughs, gaily. “The things I do for you. I mean, look!” He holds out his hand, indicating his fingertips. “Thorns! I _bled_ for you, darling.” His face suddenly goes dark, and his smile is replaced by a sneer. “Even John didn’t bleed for you.”

“Shut up.” Sherlock’s face flushes, and his eyes flare in the faint light.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re still in shock. Shall I get you a blanket?”

Sherlock has regained his control. “He's been gone a long time, Moriarty.” His face is calm and composed. “You can get over it at any time now.”

Moriarty tilts his head to the side, puzzled, before his face takes on an expression of wonder. He takes another few steps before stopping short and looking hard into Sherlock’s face. He stares for several seconds. “Oh.”  An expression of delight slowly dawns across his face. “Oh, this is good.” He steps back and claps his hands with glee.  “You were in love with him, and…oh. All this time. Oh, dear.” He starts to laugh. “Oh, the good Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock clinches his fists. “Don’t. Say. His. Name.”

Moriarty is still laughing, but he nods as he wipes his eyes. “All right, angel, I won’t. I’m sure you’re still in…” He starts to chuckle again. “Terrible pain. Mourning is a bitch, isn’t it?”

Sherlock snarls and steps forward, but Moriarty raises a hand to stop him. As if on cue, police lights start to flash through the front doors, and there’s a faint screech of brakes as the cruisers pull up outside.

“Right on schedule.” Moriarty is still smiling widely. “I must be off, Sherlock, but as ever, so lovely to see you.” He turns and starts walking down the hall. “Give your brother my best, won’t you?” he says over his shoulder. “I do admire him so.”

Moriarty flings himself through the door of the emergency exit, and is gone.

XXXXX

Sherlock is in Mycroft’s office in the mansion, pacing. Mycroft is seated nearby in a leather armchair, reading a carefully folded newspaper and looking anywhere but at his brother. Mrs. Hudson is fussing with the tea service and watching Sherlock closely. Victor is asleep on the sofa.

“Three _bloody_ days!” he says, as he stops to take the cup Mrs. Hudson is proffering.

She tuts. “Language, Sherlock.”

He sighs. “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson.” He resumes his pacing.

 **-Voiceover-  
** **I’m not sure what’s more annoying; Moriarty’s absence, or the constant, looming presence of my friends and family. They are concerned that I’ll go out and stir up trouble. I’m concerned that the trouble, which seems assured, will come here to find me.**

“Tell you what,” Mrs. Hudson says, soothingly. “I’ll just turn on the telly. We could all use a bit of distraction.”

Behind his paper, Mycroft sighs, but Mrs. Hudson walks over and flips on the television. The afternoon news comes on, growing brighter and louder as the set warms.

“I just don’t understand why he’s waiting. Why is he waiting?”

Mycroft lowers the paper and regards him with a lifted brow. “Who knows why Moriarty does anything?”

Sherlock stops and looks at him, eyes narrowed. “And your contacts haven’t found his location.”

“No, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighs. “I’d tell you.”

“Would you? I don’t know, Mycroft.” Sherlock flings his arms up into the air in a brief gesture of surrender. “Would you?”

He turns back to start walking, and so misses the minute twitch that passes across Mycroft’s features. “Of course I would. Your anxiety is making you paranoid, Sherlock.” He takes a sip of tea. “It’s not very attractive.”

Sherlock sneers in acknowledgment as he passes him.

_“…whereabouts of local helicopter pilot Greg Lestrade. The helicopter was found abandoned in a parking lot…”_

“Sherlock! They’re talking about our Greg!” cries Mrs. Hudson. She scurries over to turn up the volume on the TV set, one hand over her mouth in horror.

_“…any information, please call Honolulu PD at…”_

The telephone rings, startling them all. Mrs. Hudson’s eyes are wide as she looks to Sherlock. Mycroft is frozen, eyes on the image on the screen. Sherlock is staring at the telephone where it sits on Mycroft’s desk. Finally, after four rings, he gives himself a little shake. “Intermission is over, “ he murmurs.

He picks up the handset. “Sherlock Holmes.”

Mycroft shakes himself, then rises and scurries to his desk and flips a switch. Static hisses out of the small speaker next to the phone. After a long pause, Greg’s voice answers, tinny as it comes out of the box.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

 “Greg.”

“Not really.” Mrs. Hudson gives a little squeak, and Mycroft puts a long finger to his lips in warning. She nods and echoes the gesture. After another moment, Greg speaks in an odd syncopation, starting and stopping as though he’s reading line by line. “I’ve taken someone else out on a date, Sherlock. I think you might even know him. Gosh, he’s cute.”

“Why are you doing this? Lestrade has nothing to do with us, Jim.”

An exaggerated sigh. “Because I’m trying to make you jealous, you idiot.” A pause. “You’re not very good at this, are you, Sherlock.”

Mycroft is up and at the door, frantically gesturing to someone in the hall. 

“I’m so sorry to disappoint you.”

“Oh, darling.” Greg chokes a bit, but then goes on. “You aren’t disappointing me.  I love the chase. You know that. It makes…” Greg takes an audibly deep breath. “It makes the surrender that much sweeter.” 

The color is gone from Sherlock’s face. He draws in a deep breath. “I can hardly surrender to you over the telephone, Jim.”

Mycroft is talking urgently into Maribel’s ear, gesturing in the direction of the guest house.

Over the speaker, Greg lets out a deliberate chuckle. “Heh, heh, heh. You tease. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, you know. Besides, I’m rather wondering…” Greg’s breathing is growing faster in the odd pauses. “About this other boy. He’s very handsome.” Greg’s voice grows tighter and higher, though still calm. “Though, it is hard to tell how he’s built under all these boxes and wires.”

“Greg…” Sherlock breathes, almost inaudibly, closing his eyes. Mrs. Hudson sinks hard onto a side chair.

“But you remember, don’t you?” Greg continues, his voice beginning to shake. “It’s a good look on these Navy boys.”

“Jim, just tell me. What do you want me to do?” Sherlock starts to raise his hand to his forehead, but suddenly freezes. His brow furrows as he listens intently. After a minute, he waves to get Mycroft’s attention and mouths, “Stop her.” He holds up his hand in a staying gesture and nods toward the hallway. Mycroft raises a questioning brow, but Sherlock points an emphatic finger toward the door. Mycroft leaves the room quickly.

“Oh, Sherlock. So coarse, and in front of the company.”

Mycroft walks back in, Maribel close behind him. 

“But since you insist. Come and find us. Bishop Museum Planetarium. Have you ever been?”

Sherlock looks up and smiles widely at Mycroft. Mycroft looks back at him in surprise. 

“No.”

“You’ll love it,” Greg says flatly. “So many dark corners. Passion under the stars. Come, my dear. I’ll even give you a special show in the dome.”

Sherlock is nodding to himself, eyes flickering as he concentrates. 

“How do I know you won’t hurt Lestrade?”

“You don’t. He’s here with me, you’ll see him soon. But if you don’t come…” Greg breathes in sharply. “He’ll be dust in the wind.”

Sherlock’s shoulders relax and he briefly closes his eyes as he draws breath to respond.

“In that case, how can I resist?”

On the other end, Greg draws in a deep breath, but then after a moment’s silence, he continues. “Great! See you very soon, then.” A long pause. “Oh, and Mycroft…I know you’re listening. Do not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Call the police and you’re all dead in very imaginative ways. That includes Mrs. Hudson, by the way.”

Mycroft directs a pointed, narrow eyed glare at the telephone receiver. Mrs. Hudson covers her face with her hands.

“No police, Jim. I won’t let him call. Just don’t hurt Greg.” Sherlock is working hard to suppress a grin.

“All right, darling. I’ll trust you to handle it, but don’t keep us waiting. Wear your best suit. I’ll count the minutes.”

Sherlock hangs up. Mrs. Hudson bursts out, “Oh, that little _bastard_.”

Sherlock turns to her with a raised eyebrow, but the grin is finally breaking through. “Really. Language, Mrs. Hudson.”

Mycroft comes back around and clicks off the speaker. “All right, what did I miss?”

“You didn’t hear it? Maybe it was louder over the handset.”

“What?”

“Shell crackers!” He turns to squint out the French doors. “And right on time.” He rubs his hands together in glee.

“Shell crackers?” Mrs. Hudson asks.

Sherlock nods. “Standard shotgun shells, loaded with timed explosives. The fuse lights when the gun is fired, and you get a flash and a loud report down range.” He motions to the glass doors, and the sun setting outside them. “The cattle egrets start returning home every night about this time. Home happens to be an island in Keehi Lagoon, right by the airport. The birds will sometimes accidentally stray into aircraft flight paths, so federal wildlife officials will fire shell crackers to dissuade them.”

Mycroft looks skeptical. “And you think you heard…”

“I definitely heard,” Sherlock interrupts. “There’s nothing else that sounds like that, and they don’t use them at the military bases. He has Greg at the airport.”

“So we need to tell the police that…” 

“No police,” Sherlock cuts in flatly. “You heard him. He’s monitoring every channel, and besides, at the airport his men will see them coming from a mile away. You call the police, and Greg doesn’t see suppertime.” 

“So what do we do?” Mycroft asks.

“Well, I am going to go put on my best suit. You, Mycroft, are going to give Maribel the keys to your car and then go make Mrs. Hudson some dinner. And you, Maribel, are going to drive to a petrol station and call in the Marines.”

XXXXX

The Ferrari races along the twisting road, downshifting into the curves. The sky is that blue black that comes on just before full dark. The night is clear.

**-Voiceover-  
** **I gave Maribel Molly’s number and asked her to call and fill her in. Molly still knows people in the service, and Greg is a bit of a legend, especially among pilots. She’ll know whom to call for help. If you can’t go to the locals, you bring in the feds. The Navy takes care of its own.**

**As for me, I have to go to the Planetarium, or Moriarty will realize we know about Greg. I begged Mycroft not to interfere, to let me see this through. I didn’t expect he’d respect the request, but I thought that he might hesitate long enough for Greg to be safely rescued.**

**And if I was lucky, long enough to see this done.**

The door to the theater creaks open. Sherlock eases through the crack and stands against the wall, blinking as his eyes try to adjust to the near complete darkness. It’s a full minute before there’s the click of a projector starting, and black and white images, grainy and blurred, start to flicker on the wall across from him. As Sherlock blinks and squints, trying to bring the pictures into focus, a figure enters the beam. A magnified silhouette is thrown in relief against the curved wall, as the dusty beam glints across Moriarty’s madly grinning face. 

“Hello, Jim.” Sherlock says calmly. “Nice entrance. How long have you been planning it?”

Moriarty throws back his head and laughs. “Well, three days, as it happens.” He looks back at Sherlock and grins. “I thought you’d be impressed.”

“Impressed?” Sherlock shrugs a disinterested shoulder. “Christ planned an entire return from the dead in three days.”

Moriarty steps to the small console in front of him, pushing the button to bring the lights up and clicking off the projector. “Well, I’m pretty sure he had more help than I did, not to mention a less discriminating audience.” He tips his head in the direction of Sherlock’s waistband. “Is that a Colt 1911 Government Model .45 ACP, or are you just glad to see me?”

“Both,” says Sherlock, as he draws the gun and points it at him. “Where’s Greg?” 

“Oh, he’s around,” Moriarty says airily. “We’ll get around to him soon enough.” He cocks his head, considering. “You look good with a gun, Sherlock. Almost…scary.” His eyes twinkle. “Almost.”

Sherlock motions him from behind the console with his gun. “You don’t seem very concerned." 

Moriarty puts his hands in his pockets and moves around the table. “Oh, I’m not. Not at all. You won’t shoot me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock cocks his head, a small smile on his lips. “You sure? Because it seems rather an attractive option at the moment.”

“Oh, I won’t deny you _want_ to, “ Moriarty says. “I’m sure you do. I’m sure you’ve wanted to kill me for some time, actually.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock pretends to consider. He starts nodding. “Yes, yes, as it turns out, you’re right. Amazing. It’s like you’re a psychic.” 

Moriarty smiles widely. “You see? That’s rather the point. I do know your mind.”

Sherlock drops his smile. “Don’t even pretend you know what goes on in my head.”

“But you’re so _obvious_. It’s almost tragic. That brain, that miraculous brain, derailed by feelings. Connections. Obligations.” He drops his voice in obvious imitation of Sherlock’s. “Where’s Greg? Where’s Irene?” He widens his eyes and simpers mockingly. “It’s the _worst_ sound, John.”

Sherlock flinches, almost imperceptibly, but Moriarty registers the motion and grins widely.

“You see? Genius brain, fantastic body…” He pauses to lick his lips. “But an oversized heart. Sad. Really sad.”

“You forget, Jim. My heart was broken a long time ago, and the pieces have been long swept away.” Sherlock steps closer. “Where. Is. Greg.”

“Oh, I left him around here _somewhere._ I’ll get him in a minute. But first…” He turns toward the screen and throws his arms into the air. “Ta DA! Our feature presentation.”

“Don’t move, Jim,” Sherlock says quietly, as he tracks his motion with the gun.

Moriarty turns to smile over his shoulder. “Sherlock, we’ve settled this. Just stop already.” He moves toward the table, dims the projector and flips the switch. “Now let’s talk about why I really called you here.” He lowers his voice. “I think you’re going to _love_ this.”

The film starts up again, a derelict looking building flickering into view. Moriarty raises his voice above the clatter of the projector. “This is a very important piece of history. You see, several years ago, British Naval Intelligence staged a raid on a factory in Leeds.” He turns to face Sherlock, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder at the images. “For reasons best known to the powers that be,” he sneers, “it was filmed.”

Sherlock’s face drains. The gun droops, but quickly regains its position. The film clacks on.

“It’s awfully amateurish,” Moriarty confides. “The lighting is atrocious, the cinematography bland and oh, my god, the ending is horrible. But still, I think you’ll find the actors fairly compelling.”

On the wall, John Watson’s face appears in close up, distorted by the curve of the dome. “We clear, then?” His voice is tinny, faint. “Right. Let’s go.” 

The gun wavers as a shock passes through Sherlock’s body. “John _,”_ he whispers.

The images jump and shake as the camera moves toward the building.

“No. _No._ Turn it off.” Sherlock briefly closes his eyes. “Moriarty. Turn it off.”

Moriarty presses a button, and the picture freezes on a hand reaching toward a doorknob. “But, Sherlock. You haven’t seen anything yet.”

“Oh God, that’s John’s hand. He went in first,” Sherlock whispers. “No.” He shakes his head. “Please. No. There’s no point to this.”

Moriarty leans forward, grinning widely. “There is, though. You don’t know the entire story. For example, do you know who ordered this raid?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock whispers.

“Oh, come on. This isn’t like you. You love knowing things. You _get off_ on knowing things. Take a guess.”

Sherlock shakes his head, his lips pressed together. The gun is shaking. 

“No? How very disappointing. Very well, I’ll give you this one. The name on the order was…” Moriarty grins widely. “Commander Mary Morstan, British Naval Intelligence. Isn’t that amazing? I mean, what are the odds?” He turns around to consider the image on the wall. “What are the odds,” he murmurs.

A sob escapes Sherlock’s lips, and the gun finally lowers as he sinks to his knees. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Moriarty turns and regards him sadly. “Because you’re missing the big picture, and that’s not like you. I’m trying to help you. Think, darling.” He quickly restarts the film. Then he walks over to Sherlock and slides to his own knees next to him, reaching over to take his hand. “You can do this, Sherlock. Watch.”

Sherlock slowly raises his head, wincing as John’s hand pushes the door open. The camera’s viewpoint pulls back to bring the back of John’s head into view. The team enters the pitch dark space. There’s a murmur of voices, and then the beam of a flashlight flares over John’s shoulder. The team moves further into the large room. The warehouse is obviously empty.

“Nothing there,” Moriarty murmurs. “The intelligence was faulty. What does that mean?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond. He is staring, wide eyed, as John’s face regains the screen.

“This doesn’t make sense, Bobby,” he says to the man holding the camera. “I saw the reports, and…oh.” John’s eyes widen. “Oh, God. It’s a trap. IT’S A TRAP! OUT! EVERYBODY OUT!”

The camera jiggles and jostles, and then the view is one of the floor as the cameraman starts running all out for the door. John’s voice can be heard over the din of panicked voices and feet stomping. “GET OUT! RUN! Blackie, watch your…no, I’ve got it, go! GO!”

The door bangs open, and the screen brightens with the sudden light of outdoors. “John! Where’s John?” The camera flips, and the view is suddenly one of the cloudless sky. “WATSON! WHO’S GOT EYES ON WATSON?”

There’s another bang in the distance, and a nearby voice says, “I don’t th…" 

And then there’s a loud BOOM. The picture jerks and then is suddenly smooth, as the camera records its own arc through the air. The ground rushes up beneath it, and then the picture goes black.

Sherlock whimpers. Moriarty grimaces as if in sympathy and tightens his grip on his hand. “Apparently, it was the front of the building that was wired. The building exploded outwards into the street. The camera only survived because it got thrown clear by the blast.” He looks back up to the wall. ”Getting out didn’t do them any good at all.”

“Oh, God. _John…”_ Sherlock whispers, almost without sound. He is sagging now, barely still upright. His breathing is harsh, and his face is wet with tears.

Moriarty slides around to face him. “Oh, Sherlock. _Think_. Think about what you were before you met him. Fearless. Bold. Brilliant. You and I, together -- We could have had _everything._ We could have ruled the world,” he murmurs intently. He leans forward, softly pressing their foreheads together. “I would have made you a prince. He made you _this_.”

Sherlock does not pull back from the touch. “But I wasn’t alone,” he whispers. “Jim. It felt so good, not to be _alone_.”

Moriarty slowly leans back. Sherlock’s eyes are still closed, and so he misses the brief flash of triumph that crosses Moriarty’s face before he reassumes his look of earnest compassion. “Sherlock.” He reaches out with an index finger and lifts Sherlock’s chin. “You don’t have to be alone.” Slowly, he leans forward and carefully kisses one of Sherlock’s cheeks, and then the other. “Never again,” he whispers, before leaning in to lightly brush his parted lips against Sherlock’s own.

At the touch of their mouths, Sherlock’s eyes fly open, and he jerks back and jumps up, grabbing and raising the gun in one swift, sure motion. He roughly wipes his mouth with the back of his other hand. “What the bloody _hell_ are you doing?” he snarls. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you EVER touch me!" 

“Oh for CHRIST’S SAKE!” Moriarty yells, jumping up to his feet. “When will you stop pretending and just give it up, already!” He points angrily at the gun. “You’re never going to shoot me, you’re never going to hurt me, you NEED ME!” His face is flushed with sudden rage and his eyes are wild. “You feel amazing right now, right? You’ve been in a deep freeze for years, but then I show up and look at you now!” He gestures up and down Sherlock’s body. “Your heart is racing. Your eyes are dilated. You’re panting. You’re _alive._ ”

Sherlock shakes his head, but Moriarty presses on. “You know what else? You’re _thinking_.” Moriarty grins, wild eyed. “You’re thinking that I’m right. You’re wondering what brilliant thing I’ll say next.” His eyes darken and his gaze drops to Sherlock’s mouth. “You’re remembering how my mouth felt on yours.” He starts pacing. “It felt good, you know it did. It felt fucking _great_. And you could feel like this _all the time_!”

Sherlock is staring at him, frozen, shocked. Finally, he whispers, “You’re _insane_.”

“You’re just getting that now?” Moriarty taunts. “I’m mad as a hatter!” He twirls as he turns. “I’m Beethoven with a body count. You have no idea.”

Sherlock looks down at the gun in his hand.

“Oh, please, darling. Just stop already.” Moriarty’s pacing grows more agitated. “You forget, I know you. I watched you in rehab, I watched you in Vietnam, I watched you with that…” He waves his arm dismissively behind him at the wall. “That _person_. I’ve watched you run, I’ve watched you walk, and just a minute ago, I watched you _crawl_. And I can tell you, my dear, without one single shadow of a doubt, you will _never_ pull that trigger.”

Slowly, Sherlock starts shaking his head. “I have to end this,” he murmurs. 

“Well, you’re the only one who can,” Moriarty says cheerfully. “The government won’t stop me. Your big brother can’t reach me. Doctor Watson…” He disdainfully tosses his head in the direction of the projector. “…is never going to come for me. I’m going to walk out of here, fly home first class, and get back to work tomorrow. You’ve no idea the reach I have. I could make an entire country disappear with a few telephone calls, and you know what? I think I will! Keep an eye on the news, darling. I’ll do it for you.”

“No,” Sherlock says, determined now. “Stop it, Jim.”

“’Stop it, Jim’,” Moriarty mocks in a high pitched voice. “I’ve offered you love and I’ve shown you truth. Neither was good enough, and you know what? I’m done with you. You were the best distraction, but after everything, it turns out you’re _ordinary_. Just like the rest of them. Just like _him_. “

Sherlock closes his eyes. “Enough,” he whispers. 

“Oh, Sherlock. You disappoint me. Here I am, your greatest enemy, and you’ll let me walk away. You,” he sneers, “are on the side of the angels. I’ll kill strangers, I’ll kill your friends, I’ll kill you someday…” he stops and winks. “I’m saving that for something special. But knowing all of that, you still. Won’t. Do. It.” He stops, and spreads his arms wide. “Well, last chance, darling. Come with me, or kill me, but either way…” He goes suddenly calm and still, his face composed. “The game is over.”

Sherlock blinks, and then draws in a deep breath. “Jim?” 

Moriarty smiles. “Yes, darling?”

Sherlock straightens, and raises the gun. His face is an impassive mask.

“I won’t miss you.”

He pulls the trigger.

**-Cue credits-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal thanks to 221bJen and EnduringChill for the fantastic beta-ing and ongoing support. There are times I think they like this 'verse more than I do, I swear.
> 
> The past four chapters have been heavily based on the Magnum, PI episodes entitled "Did You See the Sunrise?" (from season 3, episodes 1 and 2). I still get chills remembering the ending of that story and my mother's gasp as we watched it together.


	8. Devil and the Deep Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock faces the unexpected consequences of his actions.
> 
> _Moran grins. “Among men of honor, last wishes should be respected."_

_He that would go to sea for pleasure, would go to hell for a pastime._ _–Sailors’ Proverb_

Sherlock’s eyes flutter open, and he blinks several times as white clouds slowly come into focus against a bright blue sky. He moves to sit up and stretch, but then scowls as he realizes his hands are tied behind him. A quick wriggle proves his ankles are bound as well. He struggles against the ropes for a moment, but makes no progress toward freedom, so he stops and tries to lift his head to look around. He makes an immediate wince of pain, and his head drops back with a moan.

“There you are,” says a light male voice with a crisp British accent. “I thought you were going to sleep all bloody day.” A tall figure moves to block the sun, and Sherlock squints up into the sudden shade. “Here, let me help you sit up, and we’ll get you some water. I’m sure you’ve got quite a headache. That shit can be nasty.”

The man puts his large hand behind Sherlock’s head, and alternatively pushes and pulls him into a seated position. Sherlock looks around and begins to register his surroundings.

“Where am I?” he asks.

“Well, that depends on what you are really asking,” the man cheerfully, as he rummages in a cooler. “Immediately, you are on board a lovely well-appointed forty foot yacht. Practically, you are in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. And metaphorically, my friend, I fear you are in a world of trouble. Let me find a cup, and then I’ll give you the details.”

Sherlock sighs. “No rush,” he says faintly.

XXXXX

**-Voiceover-**  
**It has been two weeks since I shot Jim Moriarty.**

**The police showed up twelve minutes after I pulled the trigger. Mycroft beat them by three. He saw to it that I was treated with respect as I was escorted to police headquarters. I used my one allotted telephone call to ring Lestrade and confirm that he was safe. After, with his assurances as a lullaby, I curled up in my cell and slept dreamlessly for eight hours.**

**I’m not sure I’ve slept since.**

**The next day was devoted to legal maneuvering. It should have been fascinating, watching the detectives trying to trick me into telling them everything, and Mycroft’s lawyers (and oh, they were plural) blocking them at every turn. I’d been arrested before, of course – show me a detective without a record, and I’ll show you a detective without results – but never for anything so serious as murder.**

**Mycroft and the attorneys begged me to stay mute. I was looking at a life sentence, they said. Let them do their jobs. They were trying to frighten me into good behavior, but I was fresh out of fear.**

**Instead, I lapsed into a silence born of apathy. I sat impassively, nodding when nudged, but otherwise removed from the action. Things grew tense at times, but the tension didn’t reach me. My part in this drama was done. I was numb. I suppose I was in shock. I could almost feel Mycroft’s concerned stare through the one-way glass of the interrogation room.**

**Finally, late that afternoon, a U.S. Navy Captain wearing the oak leaves of the Judge Advocate General’s Corps appeared, silent and grim, trailed closely by two U.S. State Department officials and the wide-eyed Chief of Police. They spent twenty minutes behind closed doors with the lead detective, and suddenly I was a free man. Mycroft shook the right hands and smiled the right smiles as I gathered my personal effects.**

**Two hours and a politely refused turkey sandwich later, I was home. The scent of roses still lingered in the air. I poured a glass of scotch and sank into my sofa, annotated Shakespeare in hand. I already knew the form my nightmares would take: a familiar hand frozen in time as it reached for a factory door, and a panicked voice screaming, “Who’s got eyes on Watson?”**

XXXXX

The man holds a cup of water to Sherlock’s lips. “Sorry, mate,” he says, as he splashes a bit down Sherlock’s chin. “It’s graceless, I know, but I need your hands where they are for now.” He tilts his head and looks Sherlock over, appraising him. “Though I hear it’s your tongue I should fear. Clever fellow, aren’t you, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock coughs a bit and clears his throat before speaking. “You have the advantage of me, sir.”

The man grins and bows with a courtly flourish. “Alas, my manners.” Straightening, he places his hand on his chest. “I, my Lord, am Sebastian Moran, late of the fair city of London. At your service.”

Sherlock nods. “Mr. Moran. I should say I’m glad to make your acquaintance, but honestly…you have me tied up on a boat.”

Moran holds up a single finger. “Excuse me. You’re tied up on a _yacht_.”

“Oh, of course. No offense intended.” Sherlock lifts an inquisitive eyebrow. “I assume there’s some purpose to our meeting?”

“Down to business, I see. I admire your clarity of focus, Mr. Holmes. Very well.” He pauses for effect. “I am employed by one Jim Moriarty.”

“Oh.”

“That’s it?” Moran says, laughing. “No grumbling, no feinting, no disingenuous inquiries after his health, no tearful confessions, just…’Oh’?”

Sherlock quirks a half smile. “Well, on advice of counsel…”

“Oh, right! Of course. Only a fool disregards the advice of his lawyer. I completely understand.” Moran pulls up a stool and sits across from him, an earnest expression in place. “All right then. I’ll do the talking.” He takes in and releases a deep breath before continuing. “As I said, I work for Moriarty. I started out doing odd jobs, this and that. I have a rather eclectic skill set,” he smirks, “and he found me useful. Over time, he grew to trust me, and just between us, we even became…well, let’s just say friends, since we’re being polite.”

Sherlock’s expression has grown somber. “I see,” he says quietly.

“Brilliant! I knew you’d understand. Well, Moriarty’s line of work is risky, as you might imagine, so we had certain arrangements in place.” Moran pushes his stool back and begins to pace, punctuating his words with his hands. ”Code words. Bolt holes. Contingency plans. And the very first and most important one of them: if he is to ever go missing for forty-eight hours or more, I’m tasked to go to any lengths to find and procure you, whether or not I think you’re involved in his fate.”

Sherlock is staring. “Sorry, but what?”

“I _know_. It seems a bit over the top to me too, but then…” he makes a dramatic wave. “One must consider the source. Right? But anyway, that was the deal. If he goes missing, I hunt you down.” He shrugs. “So here we are.”

“And then what?” Sherlock asks. “I’m assuming there’s more than just ‘find him.’”

Moran nods, biting his lip. “Not as much detail as you’d expect, but yeah.” He shrugs again. “He missed the rendezvous after the planetarium. I thought at first we might have just crossed signals in all the confusion, what with your pilot friend’s surprise rescue and all, but it’s been two weeks now without a word. I haven’t seen anything in the media, but I’m not ignorant of your brother’s influence.” He sighs. “It pains me to admit it, but I have to conclude that Jim is dead. So here we are.” He waves a hand around. “Sorry. You seem a nice enough fellow, but he was very clear on this point. I’m to find you, and kill you.”

Sherlock is still staring. “That seems an excessive demand to make, even of one’s…friend.”

Moran nods his head in agreement. “That’s a fair point. He always expected a lot of me, but usually I would have the implied reward of, you know, seeing him alive again some time.” He shrugs. “He was always so adamant about this, though. I can’t tell you how many times I heard it. And really, it’s rather tame compared to some of the other stuff I’ve done for him over the years."

Sherlock lifts both eyebrows. “Did he leave instructions as to the mechanism?”

“Hmmm.” Moran nods. “That’s one of the stranger parts of this, actually. He was usually very precise – well, you know, he liked everything so staged and dramatic -- but he told me that in this one thing, he would let me choose. He was very sweet about it, really. I think he meant it as a compliment. He said he’d prefer that it involve either an explosion or water, but he’d ultimately trust me to handle it as I saw fit.”

“I see.” Sherlock looks around. “So, water it is, then? That’s surprises me, somehow.”

Moran gives him a sheepish smile. “I’d much rather blow you up, yeah. It’s more ‘me,’” he says, making quotation mark gestures in the air. “But it’s considerably more difficult to get away after setting off explosives than something like…” He gestures at the ocean. “I’ve done both, and let me tell you, fire really gets everyone’s attention.”

“I can appreciate your practicality,” Sherlock says drily. 

Moran quirks an eyebrow. “Well, he didn’t say I had to go down for it. It just has to be effective.” He smiles. “Lots of accidents off the coast of Hawaii.”

“True enough.” Sherlock nods. “All right then. Let me get this straight. Your murdering sociopath of a boyfriend made you agree to kill someone you’d never met after he died, and you’re going to do it.”

“Murdering _genius_ sociopath of a boyfriend.” Moran grins. “Among men of honor, last wishes should be respected. And anyway…” He leans in conspiratorially. “I wouldn’t want him to haunt me. You know he’d be a right prick about it.”

“True.” Sherlock sighs and shakes his head. “And he told me the game was over. I should have known better.”

“You really should have.” Moran nods knowingly, then claps his hands together. “All right, one more drink, and then let’s get to it, eh?”

Moran holds the cup of water to his lips, and Sherlock gulps quickly. After a moment, Moran tosses the cup to the side. Sherlock starts to squirm against his restraints as he is pulled to his feet. 

Moran’s face is calm and composed as he leads Sherlock to the side of the boat. He keeps a firm grip on Sherlock’s shirt collar with one hand as Sherlock starts to struggle in earnest. With the other, he pulls a jackknife from his pocket and flips it open. “Hold still, now,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t want to cut you. Might attract sharks.” He stoops and with a flick of his wrist cuts the ties holding Sherlock’s legs together. Sherlock stumbles a bit as the pressure is released.

Sherlock is gasping, eyes desperately searching the horizon. Moran stands behind him, eyes narrowed and lips parted. All the humor is now gone from his face.

“So you’ve accepted with this whole…obsession of his?” Sherlock says, growing frantic. “He was your lover! And you’re letting him have at me from beyond the grave? He’s _dead_ , and he’s playing with you _even now_!”

Moran steps in, his mouth just behind Sherlock’s ear. “He’s playing with us both, darling. I loved that about him. He was all about the game,” he murmurs, leaning close, his breath ruffling the hair on Sherlock's neck. “So, tell me. Did he ever fuck you?”

“ _What_? No!”

Moran smiles coldly. “Then I win,” he says. With one quick motion, he cuts the rope at Sherlock’s wrists, and with the other hand, he pushes him overboard.

Sherlock surfaces, sputtering. The yacht is out of sight in less than a minute.

XXXXX

“Look what a mess you’re in, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson sighs. Sherlock startles to see her next to him in the water, bobbing with the small swells. 

“Mrs. Hudson! What are you…oh. Hallucinations.” Sherlock sighs. “Breakthroughs of preconscious or unconscious material into consciousness in response to certain psychological situations and needs.” He shakes his head, frowning. “Not an atypical reaction to extreme stress and anxiety, but still…disappointing.” He rubs his face with one wet hand. “I haven’t been out here very long. This isn’t off to a good start at all.” 

“Now, no need to be rude, dear. I’m doing the best I can,” Mrs. Hudson says, starting to tread water with short, steady strokes. “I’m just here to give you a bit of company.”

“So auditory and visual…” Sherlock says, curiously. He sniffs once, loudly, then again. “Not olfactory, though. Hmm.”

“That is interesting, isn’t it?” Mrs. Hudson says pleasantly. “Scent is normally such an important spontaneous trigger of emotional memory, much more so than sight or sound. You know, Proust and his madeleines and all of that.” She cocks her head. “For a Navy man, the smell of the ocean isn’t much of a trigger for you. I wonder why that is?”

“It’s a reasonable question,” Sherlock says, considering. “I do live on a beach, so maybe I’ve been desensitized. Or perhaps it’s because I’ve never suffered any traumas at sea?” He looks around, ruefully. “Before this one, that is.”

“This is pretty traumatic,” Mrs. Hudson agrees. “Once you’re back, you might need some help getting over this one.” 

“Of course I won’t need help,” Sherlock answers, looking appalled. “I’ve survived far worse than this. You know that.” 

She nods, thoughtful. “There’s probably been some cumulative effect, though. It’s not even been four weeks since Molly first saw that little bastard at the airport, and here you are. And there are probably some repressed memories coming to the surface as well, right, dear?” She hesitates. “How are you handling the video?”

Sherlock winces, involuntarily. 

“I see,” she says, nodding slowly. “I understand. I’m having a rough time of it right now, too, what with the flats exploding and all. It would be nice if we could get through it together.”

Sherlock nods. “You’ve handled your hardship very well, Mrs. Hudson. I could learn from you. For a woman who’s lost everything, you’ve been remarkably stoic.” He grins. “Even Mycroft was impressed. You’re a credit to the Commonwealth.”

She swats at him, making a little splash. “Oh, you.” She sighs, but then winks. “Truth is, though, I didn’t lose everything. I told you, I own that building in London.” She smiles at him, slyly. “Well, it’s not just the one, really. When I realized something was going on with Frank, I, shall we say, redirected some of his liquidity into more concrete investments back home.”

“Wait, you stole from your husband? Ah.” Sherlock nods, thoughtful. “I guess I did know that. I noticed the letters from the agents and solicitors when I picked up your mail while you were gone. High powered agencies. Mycroft has dealings with some of them.”

Mrs. Hudson nods sheepishly. “My husband was a lovely boy, Sherlock, and clever in his way, but he was rather naïve, you know?” She sighs. “He always acted like he was in a gangster film. He wanted to leap right to violence, when the real power is in its implication.” She shrugs. “If you do it right, just being willing to hurt is enough. You shouldn’t actually have to follow through.” 

Sherlock nods. “Like Jim.”

“Well, no, not really. Your Moriarty fellow, he was insane. I doubt he started out that way, but he got there soon enough, didn’t he?”

“Maybe I inspired it in him.” 

“Oh, stop it,” she says. “Don’t you dare think that way. You brought out the worst in him, maybe, but that’s to him, not to you. He saw something beautiful, and he wanted it, and he used his craziness to go after it. That doesn’t make the beautiful thing bad.”

Sherlock looks away, swallowing hard. “You’re making me blush, Mrs. Hudson,” he says. “I’m not sure you should tamper with my circulation right now. It might attract the sharks. I’ve been warned about them.”

Mrs. Hudson chuckles gently. They both float for a few moments, looking around at the ceaseless waves.

“I wish I could have met him, your John,” she says suddenly. “I would have liked him. We would have liked each other.”

Sherlock looks to the sky for a long moment, blinking, and then back at her. “Yes. Without a doubt.”

“He loved you, you know.”

Sherlock looks away again. “Please don’t make me waste my very limited supply of clean water and salt on tears.”

She doesn’t appear to have heard him. “I think…” Her brow furrows. “I think he chose Mary specifically to get over you. I mean, physically she couldn’t be much more different, could she? She’s intelligent enough, though not in your league. I would imagine there’s a spark of danger common to the both of you that he picks up on, subconsciously. But otherwise, she’s as ‘not you’ as one could get. He loves you, but he can’t stand to think about it everyday.”

“You’re using present tense, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock murmurs, his eyes closed tight. “Could you not?”

She smiles brightly at him. “Oh, he’ll be ever so glad Jim is dead.” 

“ _Please_. Enough.”

“Very well, dear. I guess I should be off, in any event.” She leans over and pats his arm where it bobs in the warm water. “Remember, you can’t give up. You just can’t. Victor wouldn’t abide it." 

“Of course, Mrs. Hudson.” He tries to smile.

“Maybe when you get back, you’ll consider eating a bit more. It would be easier to float with a bit of fat on you,” she says hopefully.

“I will be fine, I’m sure. Though…” He smiles gently. “As ever, I do appreciate your concern. Now you go on. Give my love to Victor.”

“I do wish you wouldn’t encourage her so with that idiotic creature,” Mycroft sniffs.

XXXXX

Mrs. Hudson peeks through the doorway into Mycroft’s office. “Oh, hello, dear. Listen, have you seen Sherlock?”

Mycroft sniffs. “He’s off playing cops and robbers, I imagine. He’ll be along in due course.”

Mrs. Hudson nods. “I’m sure you’re right, only…he missed his walk with Victor. He always takes Victor when I’m to play bridge.”

“I am not my brother’s keeper, Mrs. Hudson,” he says dismissively. “Perhaps Maribel can keep an eye on him?”

“Oh, right. That’s a good idea. Thank you, Mycroft.” She wanders off, her expression concerned.

XXXXX

“Go away. I don’t want to talk to you,” Sherlock says.

“Of course not. You never do,” Mycroft says. “I’m not certain why you persist in thinking me an enemy. That kind of thinking almost broke Mummy’s heart, you know.”

“Oh, stop,” Sherlock sneers. “Mummy’s heart was made of stone and fortified with steel, and you know it.” 

“Yes, well.” Mycroft nods once in acknowledgement. “I’ll grant you a certain emotional fortitude. Holmeses are resilient. The family resemblances don’t end there, but it’s probably the trait you’d do well to focus on in your current circumstances.”

“I don’t need a lecture right now, big brother. Or ever, really. Run along.”

“I could, but you know I’d be back, even if just to make sure you don’t get the last word.” He looks down at where the water laps against his chest. “But I do rather hate swimming, you know.”

Sherlock smirks. “I didn’t used to, but I find I’m coming around to your point of view.”

“Understandable.”

They bob silently in the water for a minute, Mycroft occasionally making an awkward pass with his arms to help keep him in place.

“You were always better at this sort of thing than I,” Mycroft finally says. “Athletics. Movement. I wonder why.”

Sherlock tips his head, considering. “It requires effort. You don’t want anyone to see you sweat.” 

“You don’t either.”

“That’s not true,” Sherlock muses. “Not really. I don’t care if people see me work, as long as they don’t see me fail.”

“That’s--nearly poetic.”

“Nearly.”

Mycroft offers something that might pass for a smile, and another minute passes. “You know, I wonder which of us knows the other better.”

Sherlock purses his lips, considering. “Hmmm. We both observe the other closely, probably with equal skill. The uncertainty is in the analysis. Drawing the correct deductions from the data.” He shrugs. “I suppose it comes down to which of us knows human nature better.”  
  
Mycroft frowns. “Well, that gets to the heart of it. I’m not sure we can answer that. I struggle to stay above it all, and thus have the benefit of my lofty perch. I can see the whole picture, and am unlikely to miss a change in current. You, however, dive into the river and live in the mud. You have...feelings. Connections.” He sniffs. “Distractions. But I must concede, you might have the advantage over me with your practical experience. I’m sure that serves you well, at times.”

“At times.” Sherlock grins. “You know, Mycroft, sometimes I think our greatest family gift is the back handed compliment, and you truly are the standard bearer.”

Mycroft smiles then. “One must excel where one can.” 

“But of course.”

They float a few moments more, before Mycroft swims around to tread water in front of him. Despite the proximity, he is careful to not meet Sherlock’s eyes. 

“You never told me what happened at the pool in Vietnam,” Mycroft finally says, quietly.

“No.”

Mycroft nods. “Actually, you never really told me anything about John.”

“That’s true.”

“So did you never wonder how I knew?”

Sherlock looks up in surprise.

“No. That’s…interesting.” His eyes narrow in concentration. “I should have, but then you’ve always just known everything. At least, it’s always seemed that way. My teachers, grades, pastimes, friends, work.” He tilts his head, considering. “You’ve always had excellent intel, but I realized early on that your only influence was within the British system.”

“Thus your American commission. I drove you into the arms of our allies.”

“There were other reasons for that as well, but yes.” He shakes his head. “Stop trying to distract me. You brought this up.” 

Mycroft shrugs. “Any time I’ve tried to keep something from you, you’ve figured it out. It might take time, but you always get there in the end. It’s really quite annoying.” He looks out to the horizon, smiling sadly. “It does keep us from having to talk everything through, though. It’s never been easy for us to communicate, but you changed after Vietnam. I’ve struggled to relate to you ever since.”

“Relate to me?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Mycroft, that’s so--macramé of you.” He tilts his head and raises a sarcastic eyebrow. “Are you about to ask me to share my feelings and join your drum circle?”

Mycroft smiles a thin smile. “Now who’s deflecting?”

“You are trying, though.” Sherlock’s face is bright with sudden insight. “The night Mrs. Hudson moved in. Right before Lestrade called the day of the planetarium. You really do want to talk to me, but you feel you can’t get through to me.”

Mycroft hesitates, and then nods. “I _would_ like to be a resource for you. Though it’s not just me, mind. Those closest to you see your suffering and wish to offer assistance, but you instinctively resist. It’s just more apparent with me.”

“Of course. It’s always about power with you.” 

“Not always,” he frowns. “At least, not entirely. I can see how you might believe that, because of how competitive we were as children. Nonetheless, I do try to act in your best interests. Calling Lestrade after your overdose. Bringing you to Hawaii. I suppose those events might seem overbearing, but…well.” Mycroft lowers his head, suddenly uncertain. “You can’t deny you’ve been better off since those interventions.”

“I…suppose,” Sherlock says, reluctantly. “It’s quite difficult to argue against that when I have my health and a job. But that’s not really what we’re talking about. You’re keeping something specific from me now.”

Mycroft stays silent. 

“You are.”

More silence.

“Los Angeles. You learned something in the briefing you were given after Moriarty showed up. Something that disturbed you.”

Mycroft stares into the distance.

“We couldn’t have known he was coming. Moriarty, I mean. You’re not responsible for that, you know,” Sherlock says abruptly. “Or for what happened to John. You couldn’t have saved him. I understand that. I never thought to blame you.”

Mycroft’s expression hardens. “I should have known about Morstan.”

“I can see why you feel that way. I should have, too. I knew something was wrong, but I was busy watching for Moriarty. I didn’t know the real danger was right in front…oh.” He lets his gaze turn inward. “ _Oh_.” 

Mycroft sighs as he sees recognition cross Sherlock’s face. “You see. My contacts didn’t tell me this. I don’t think they even know. However, reading between the lines…”

“It was intentional. She let us conclude she worked for him, but…oh, god. We were so busy watching Moriarty’s theatrics…but it was always Mary’s show. She was controlling the entire thing the whole time.”

“Go on.”

“She would have been able to get the troop movements on her own. She had access to everyone’s intel, not just British data. I saw that in the first file she ever showed me; she had everything from everywhere. But Moriarty tried to get the troop information through me. Why? So he didn’t have to go to her. He wanted some autonomy. It was Mary on the pager that night at the pool. She was watching, She knew what he was up to.”

“Of course.”

“It was child’s play for her to pull together the means to lure me to the jungle. Everything was in order, almost too much order. It was the perfect trap. Didn’t you say that they never solved that case?”

“It was never settled, no. That particular heroin just stopped showing up on the streets.”

Sherlock continues, his words picking up speed. “It was too risky to continue making it after I survived the shooting. That must have been a shock to her; that bullet was clearly meant to kill. Had I told you what I knew, you could have requested an investigation, and the Royal Navy would have taken you seriously. So she had to shut me down another way. She had to take away my motivation.”

“Yes.” Mycroft nods. “You’re right.”

“She ordered the raid that killed her fiancée. She knowingly sent him to his death.” He holds up a finger and closes his eyes in concentration. “Mycroft...”

“Something is bothering you. What?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “I would have sworn she really loved him, or at least felt something for him. I mean, I know she’s a psychopath, but…it felt real, somehow.”

Mycroft shrugs. “You know more about this than I do. Human nature, remember. But I do know, the individuals we think of as psychopaths are incredibly possessive. She watched you effortlessly uncover what she had thought safely hidden. She probably thought there was a good chance you’d figure all of it out, and that would be the end of her life with John. I don’t know if she really wanted him, but she didn’t want _you_ to take him away. She made a move, and you survived, so she…took further action. She must have been terrified to act so rashly.”

Sherlock frowns, his eyes again closed and his body tense. “That’s not everything. There’s something else. You’re hiding something, and I’m missing it.”

“Yes. We have unfinished business, you and I, but I don’t want to tax you just now. You have other things to worry about. For example, what just bumped your leg?”

Sherlock’s eyes pop open.

“Can I tell you what I know about shark bites?” asks Molly.

XXXXX

“Oh, hello, Mr. Holmes,” says Molly. “How are you today?” She shifts the telephone receiver to her other hand and starts pawing through the organized chaos on her desk. “Did you need last month’s financials? I have them right here…”

“No, thank you, Dr. Hooper. I’ll get them at the next board meeting.” In his office, Mycroft passes a hand over his worried face, though his voice stays calm. “I assume everything is in order?”

“Very much so, sir. It was an excellent month. The dance contest was an inspired idea. The board should write Sherlock a letter of thanks.” She smiles into the phone, though her eyes stay wary. “So, what can I help you with today?”

“I’m sorry to bother you. This is probably foolishness, but have you heard from my brother?”

“Today? No, I haven’t. We’ve exchanged messages, but we haven’t really talked at all, not since he got out of…well. Not for a couple of weeks. But today, not at all.” She frowns as she looks to a long, narrow box in the corner of her office. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m sure everything is fine. I just haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

“Well, that’s not unusual, right? You don’t see each other every day.” 

“No, but he had a standing appointment with Mrs. Hudson… and the Ferrari is here.”

“Oh.” A cloud of worry passes across her face. “Did you check the beach? Maybe he went running and got distracted. You know, how he does.”

Mycroft nods, his face still creased with concern. “An excellent thought, Dr. Hooper. I will check into that. Please don’t worry. I’ll have him call you when I find him.” He forces a smile onto his face and into his voice. “How is Mrs. Hudson doing at bridge today?”

“They finished about an hour ago. She lost and had to pay for lunch. She’s always a good sport,” she says, as she starts absently nibbling at a fingernail.

“Ah, well. I suppose I’ll be seeing her soon, then. Thank you, Dr. Hooper,” Mycroft says, and hangs up.

XXXXX

“I was surprised, actually. The wound was clean, though, you know, it was still pretty bad. Very distinctive. You could see the indentations of some of the teeth along the distal edges of the leg bite. There was one on the arm, too.” 

“Molly.”

“I think the guy might have made it, except he had been drinking. The young guys would do that sometimes, get drunk and go surfing. He must have panicked at the first contact. If you splash around too much, you really get their attention. Oh! Sherlock, you need to stay still. Anyway. Looked like the shark came back around for a second go. We ruled the cause of death exsanguination rather than trauma, though. The water there is so warm and…”

“Molly.”

“You don’t have any cuts or anything, do you? He didn’t cut you before he pushed you in? I’d be surprised because he obviously wanted you to suffer for a long time, but then a shark bite isn’t an easy way to go either, and he was angry at you, though that’s not fair, you never did anything to him…”

_“Molly.”_

“What?”

“Could you please just not talk for a minute?”

“Oops. Sorry.” She motions to the water. “Just, you know, shark.”

Sherlock nods. “I am aware.”

Molly and Sherlock both cease all motion. Molly is wide-eyed and pale, obviously struggling to stay still and keep her breathing under control. Sherlock silently curses the waves that keep him bobbing in the water. He closes his eyes, and his brow furrows in deep concentration. 

“There,” Molly whispers. “Did you feel that? He made another pass. Why do we always think sharks are boys? It could be a female shark. That might even be worse, actually. Did you know that sharks are ovoviviparous? The eggs are fertilized and start development before they hatch inside the oviduct. Then they complete gestation inside the mother and are born live. Amazing, isn’t it? Tough on the mother, though.”

“Molly,” Sherlock sighs.

“Oh, right. Right. Sorry.”

They lapse back into silence, floating. Sherlock twitches once, then once again, as something again brushes by him under the water.

“Oh, god,” Molly whispers. “Sherlock…”

He jerks again, and starts to curl in on himself, slowly, wrapping his limbs up into a tight ball. He has gone deathly pale. He bites his lip and closes his eyes. Molly is starting to cry. Just as a sob escapes her, a stubby snout breaks the surface. Sherlock suddenly finds himself being closely regarded by an intelligent eye.

“It’s…it’s a _dolphin_ ,” Molly says through her tears.

The dolphin turns its head to consider Sherlock from the other side. Two more snouts pop up near by. 

“They’re checking you out!” Molly starts to giggle, a nervous sound. “Oh, look, Sherlock, there’s a whole pod of them! They’re so cute!” 

The first dolphin pulls back and chatters at Sherlock. The other two somersault around him. Sherlock can see two more dolphins breach the surface a dozen yards away.

“He’s talking to you! Oh, I think he likes you! I think they’re Spinner dolphins. God, they’re cute.”

Sherlock finally releases the breath he has been holding, and his shoulders sag briefly in relief before he starts to tread water again. The first dolphin dives and surfaces behind him, and then dives again.

“Oh, he’s trying to play with you now! I wish I had a camera. That’s so…”

“Molly, if you say ‘cute’ one more time, I shall certainly hold your head under the water.”

“Hmph,” she sulks, before she soundlessly mouths the word “cute” in his direction.

“They are beautiful, though,” Sherlock murmurs, as he turns to watch them play. “ _Much_ more attractive than sharks, at any rate.”

Sherlock and Molly float side by side for several minutes, watching the dolphins frolic. They dance and flip and squeak, and Sherlock watches, entranced. Then they take one more pass by him, and are gone.

Molly turns to him. “That was _fun_.”

“Mmm. I suppose.” Sherlock lifts a sardonic eyebrow. “I hope I live to tell the real you the tale someday.”

“Do you think they came because they knew you were in trouble? I’ve heard about that, dolphins rescuing people lost at sea.”

“Maybe. They are clever creatures, aren’t they.”

“Yes,” she nods. “Highly intelligent. Also very protective. They will surround injured members of their pod, or even other animals, and help them to safety.” 

“Hmmm.”

“They will also surround vulnerable animals, including people, to protect them from shark attacks. It’s probably a good sign they left, considering that possibility.”

“True.”

“You know, they will on occasion try to mate with humans. Others in their group seem to like to watch, and…” 

“Molly?”

“Yes?”

“Why do you know so much about dolphins?”

She rolls her eyes. “We live in Hawaii, Sherlock. It’s in the water, so to speak. Seriously, sea creatures are _everywhere_. You should hear me lecture on sea turtles.”

“Molly?”

“Yes.”

“Please don’t.”

She laughs and nods. “Fine. Let me know if you change your mind.”

They tread water together for some time, in a companionable silence. “It’s going to get rough when it gets dark, you know,” Molly finally says. “Do you think those clouds mean anything?”

Sherlock squints. “I’m not sure. Maybe.” 

“We _will_ come for you,” she says with determination. “We will. Mrs. Hudson has probably noticed you missed your regular date with Victor. We’ll figure it out.” 

Sherlock sighs. “Perhaps. One can hope.” He looks out to the horizon. “She might just let it go, too. I’ve been keeping to myself a lot since…”

“Since you rid the world of that neurologically defective piece of human refuse?” she smiles.

“I was going to say, since I killed your ex-boyfriend, but yours works too." 

The smile leaves her face. “You’re going to have to forgive me some time, you know.”

Sherlock looks at her with surprise. “I’m not holding a grudge.”

“Aren’t you? I haven’t seen you since all this began. You had your maid call to set me on Greg’s trail…”

He shakes his head. “You’re overreading that. I had to get to the planetarium,” he says. “I had to reach Jim before he realized we knew where Greg was. I just didn’t have time to call you myself.”

“Well, if you say so. But then after, when you got home from jail, you didn’t return my calls.”

“I was exhausted, Molly." 

“Right, I’m sure, the first day or two. But nothing since? I’ve called, I invited you to lunch, Greg and I invited you to dinner…”

Sherlock flinches involuntarily.

Her eyes widen. “Oh, is that what this is about? You’re jealous of Greg and me? _Sherlock,_ ” she whispers. “Do you…are you attracted to Greg?”

“What? NO!” he yells. “No, no, no!” He stops to take a deep breath. “It’s just…look, I…care for both of you. And I’m happy that you found each other. OK? I am.”

“Ah.” Molly nods. “But seeing us together reminds you of John.”

Sherlock sighs deeply. “It does. Look, Molly, it’s not…”

“You have to forgive him, too.”

Sherlock blinks, stunned. “What?”

“You have to forgive John. For leaving. When Moriarty threatened you both.”

“I don’t blame John for leaving. He had to, you know that.”

Molly is shaking her head emphatically. “You didn’t want him to leave. If he hadn’t given in to Moriarty, you would have found another way to make it work. But he made an agreement, and he was more than anything a man of honor. _And_ he wanted to protect you.” She looks over at him, her eyes nearly glowing with her intensity. “He did it for the best of reasons, but it nearly destroyed you. It’s hurting you now. You _have_ to let it go.”

Sherlock looks to the sky, blinking back tears. “He’s dead anyway, Molly,” he says, with some bitterness. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“You have to forgive him for that, too. All right? _You’re_ not dead,” she says matter of factly. “You’re still here. You still have a life to live. And I see you, Sherlock. You solve your cases, and you go running, and you have tea with Mrs. Hudson, but that’s it. That’s all you do. You need to live. You need to let it go.”

He smiles faintly. “I fight off random sociopaths, too. That has to count for something.” 

She smirks. “All right, I’ll grant you that. But hopefully that’s over for a while.” Her smile fades. “You’ll have to forgive John for leaving, before you can even begin to heal.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Molly…”

“No, Sherlock Holmes, you listen to me for once. Forgive me, for Jim. Forgive John, for leaving. Forgive yourself, for staying. And Sherlock…” She is smiling softly, eyes full of regret. “Forgive Mycroft, too. He’s going to need it.”

Sherlock sighs, reeling with sudden fatigue.

“God, isn’t she great?” beams Greg. 

XXXXX

“Hello?”

“Greg? Hi, it’s Molly.”

“Oh, hello, sweetheart.” He curves into the handset, and his voice drops seductively. “All recovered from last night?”

She blushes. “Don’t start. Have you talked to Sherlock?”

Greg frowns, straightening. “No, not for a few days. He seemed so…I was trying to give him some space. What’s up?”

“Well, Mycroft just called. Sherlock stood Mrs. Hudson up today, and no one has seen him, but the Ferrari is still at the mansion. And there’s another thing…he had a box delivered here to the office. Told me it was a present for Mycroft and he didn’t want him to see it yet. He’s been calling me three times a day to see if it’s been delivered, but today, nothing.”

“Did you try calling him?”

“Just now. His answering machine is full.” 

Greg turns to stare out the window. “Mols…I don’t like it.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t either.”

He taps his fingers. “The thing is…I don’t know what happened to the guy who kidnapped me. Moriarty’s man. Last I heard, there was some holdup with his deportation.”

Molly pales. “But Greg, we had him,” she whispers. “We caught him. I cuffed him myself.”

“I know sweetheart. I was there. You were magnificent in your fury.” Greg smiles fondly for a moment, before the worry settles back in. “Mycroft said they’d keep me informed, but now I’m wondering.”

“Oh, God, Greg…what if he got away? What if it’s not over?”

“Mols, let’s just…can you call Mycroft back and ask what happened after the arrest? The guy’s name was Moran. And don’t let Mycroft do that…” he waves his hand. “…you know, Mycroftian bullshit thing.”

“I will,” she says, straightening. “And I won’t. What are you going to do?”

“Well,” he says, “I think I have to pay a visit to Irene Adler.”

Molly blinks. “Wait. What?”

XXXXX

“Lestrade! Welcome to hell. You’ll be surprised to note it looks nothing like Vietnam.” Sherlock gestures at the water. “There’s absolutely nothing to see, and only hallucinations and erotically inclined dolphins bent on cross-species orgies to keep you company.” He sighs. “Christ, this is boring.”

“Well, I’m not going to be any help, then. I’m the most boring person you know.” Greg Lestrade treads water with one hand beside him, floating with an easy grace. He takes a drink from the longneck beer bottle in his other hand and grins. “I was on the lacrosse team, for Christ’s sake. Terrible.” He lifts his bottle toward Sherlock in a mock salute, and then looks out to the horizon. “Well, balls. Looks like you’re in for a bit of weather.”

Sherlock follows his gaze and frowns at the clouds. “It still doesn’t look too bad.” 

Greg shrugs. “You can never predict storms on the ocean, you know that from your surface tour. Turbulence accumulates at sea. Weather can turn unexpectedly violent in minutes.” He tilts his head, considering. “If the waves aren’t too bad, you might be able to drink some rainwater. That’s good. That might be what saves you in the end, if you don’t drown.” 

“And if someone finds me,” Sherlock says.

“We’ll find you,” Greg says with assurance. “Mrs. Hudson is surely asking questions already. You know Mycroft noticed the Ferrari. He’ll think to call Molly or me.”

Sherlock hums a noncommittal agreement.

Greg continues. “There’s also a chance, albeit small, that Moran was already on someone’s radar. Maybe someone noticed the boat.”

“It’s a yacht,” Sherlock says, absently. “What was its name? If I do get out of this, it might be one way to track him down.”

“You noticed something when you surfaced,” Greg says. “Pretty sure there was a color in the name. Georgia Peach? Red Apple? It wasn’t a cool color.” 

“No. There was a flower. English Rose? Oh, Yellow Rose,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. “Yellow Rose of Texas. Obvious.”

“Yeah, well, we know whose money was behind it, then. That might link him to Moriarty. His money, at least.”

“You’re building an evidence trail,” Sherlock observes. “Optimistic of you.”

“I told you, we’re looking for you,” Greg says with certainty. “I’m an investigator too, you know.” He takes another sip of his beer. “Though you always thought me a shitty one.”

“Oh, you weren’t _that_ bad, really,” Sherlock says, begrudgingly. “You did well on that one case, with the man with the kids and the dry cleaners. Though flirting with the daughter was cheating.”

Greg looks over with an abashed expression. “Well, I’m a cheater. You know that. It’s what I do.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Stop it. You didn’t cheat,” he says. “You just let someone else get away with it. Once. And no one ever formally connected you to that anyway.” 

“You figured it out easily enough.” 

Sherlock lets a grin flash across his face. “Oops. Sorry.” His face grows serious. “But nearly half of your Academy class was involved in that scandal, at some level. Once I saw you how you acted with that one guy, it was clear that…”

“This isn’t important now,” Greg interrupts. “I made a career out of making sure nothing like that even happened in the ranks again. At least as far as I could see to it.”

“You are a man of integrity.”

“I am a man with a guilty conscience, who happens to own a helicopter and is the most likely among your acquaintances to save your skinny ass,” Greg corrects.

Sherlock smiles a true smile. “Just so.”

The two float side by side for a minute, watching the gathering clouds. Finally Greg draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Thanks for never telling Molly about the cheating thing,” he murmurs. 

Sherlock glances at him from the corner of his eye. “It’s your story to tell, not mine.”

“I didn’t expect to fall for her, you know,” Greg continues softly. “We’ve known each other as friends for so long, and then one day, there it was. Not like you and John. You two were fireworks from the start.”

Sherlock winces. “Unfortunate phrasing, Lestrade.”

“Sorry. But you know what I mean. One of the things that drew Molly and me together was our affection for you. Christ, how she worries about you. I thought she had a thing for you for a long time.”

Sherlock nods. “I thought she had a thing for Irene, honestly.”

Greg laughs. “Jesus, Sherlock, everyone has a thing for Irene.” He pauses. “Thanks for not telling her about that, either. I could tell you knew.”

“The stutter gave it away. I knew it was just the once, and it was a long time ago.” Sherlock shrugs. “Irene’s good at what she does.”

“Oh, like you would know,” says Irene.

XXXXX

Irene waits at the elevator, clad in a smart black business suit and high heels. The doors chime before opening to reveal a nervous Greg Lestrade. 

“Mister Lestrade,” she murmurs, eyes skimming his trim form with appreciation. “I was so glad to get your call. It’s always a pleasure.” Her eyes come back to his face, and a slight frown crosses her brow. “Come in, won’t you?”

Greg trails along behind her. “Miss Adler. Thanks for seeing me so quickly.”

She motions him into her office and closes the door. Gracefully, she directs him to the side chair in front of her desk, and then walks briskly to the drink cart. “I can tell from your demeanor that this is not a business visit. That is to say, this is not pleasure.”

“Um, no. No, it’s, uh, not.” He accepts the glass of amber liquid from her with a shaking hand. “Thanks,” he says gratefully.

She stands before him and considers him closely. “Tell me.” 

“I…I….that is, you…um, I mean, we both. Um. Well. We…”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Irene says, exasperated. She straightens her jacket and draws up to her full height, a stern expression on her face. “LIEUTENANT COMMANDER LESTRADE. REPORT.”

Greg immediately jumps to his feet and stands at attention. “Sherlock is missing. No one has seen him since yesterday. No one knows where to look. You and I were both held captive by Moriarty’s henchman, Moran. We’re the only ones who had direct contact with him, and apparently he’s out of custody. I’m very concerned that Sherlock’s disappearance is part of that whole affair. I thought you might have some insight, and perhaps we could come up with a plan together.”

Irene lifts an expectant eyebrow.

“Ma’am,” he adds, with deference.

XXXXX

 

“Irene,” Sherlock says, exhaustion in his voice. “I’m not having a very good day, and now it appears I’ll get to deal with a storm. So, do you think you could, just this once, give me one tiny break?” 

“Shut up. Quit whining.” Irene is impeccably coiffed as always, her makeup flawless. She swims around to face him, pulling up in his personal space. “Look, I know you probably as well as anyone does, would you agree?” 

“I suppose,” he says cautiously. “We are rather alike, in some ways.” 

“Then you’ll know where I’m coming from when I say I’m sick of your shit. Listen up. You can’t do anything to aid in your own rescue. Am I right?” 

He blinks in surprise. “I haven’t been able to think of anything, so I have to say yes.”

“And there’s nothing you can do about the weather except ride it out, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Right. So let’s stop worrying about what you can’t fix.” She nods, decisively. “Let’s talk about John.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about John." 

Irene dips her chin to catch his eyes. “You know, it wasn’t my idea to hang out with you in the middle of the fucking ocean. Your head is a mess right now. It needs straightening, and I’m apparently the maid.”

Sherlock barks out a single, humorless laugh. “There is no one on this planet less suited to be a maid than you, Irene.” 

“You’ve never seen me in the costume, darling. Now.” She leans toward him, intent. “Talk.”

“No.”

“Yes.” 

Sherlock squints, considering her closely. “You’re on the attack. Why? This isn’t like you. You aren’t this persistent.”

“Sure I am. I just usually hide it behind flirting and diplomacy. As you said, we’re very alike. I see things people don’t want seen, just like you do. You know this. We just use the information to different ends.”

He sniffs. “Vastly different ends.”

“Don’t even try to get all superior with me, you arrogant ass,” she snarls. “You forget what I already know.” She drags a finger down his chest, stopping just over his scar. “I know you have this, and I know Mary gave it to you. You and big brother finally figured out that she’s the brains of that whole operation. Now it’s time to figure out why it matters.”

“This is not the time, Irene. I can’t think about it right now.”

“What, because of a little wind?” 

Sherlock’s hair is fluttering in the strong breeze. He looks around and scowls at the waves, now taller and often capped with white. “Bloody hell.”

“Stay calm, Sherlock. Stay with me. Think. One deduction. Mary’s in charge, and she signed the order for the raid on the factory. Why do I care?”

Sherlock’s gaze turns inward. “I don’t know. She let him die. She _sent_ him to die.”

“Are you sure about that? Because I’m not. It doesn’t make sense.” Irene taps her temple with one elegant finger. “I’ve seen her through your eyes, and I think you are right. She cared for him, at least on some level. She was happy to have him.” Her eyes narrow in concentration. “She read you like a comic book the minute she met you. Moriarty’s threat had neutralized you as competition. She didn’t have to expend the energy to lie, and she wouldn’t have, without reason.”

“Well, either she lied that she loved him, or she is as ruthless as they come.”

Irene growls in frustration. “There’s something else, damn it, something we’re missing.” She closes her eyes. “Remind me. What did she say to you in the jungle?”

 _“You haven’t been in touch with John at all since the pool, have you. Moriarty said you haven’t, but I need to be sure. Tell me. Does John know I’m here?”_  

Irene purses her lips. “Hmmm. She sounded very concerned with what John knew. Didn’t sound like she was about to break up with him, did it?”

“Maybe she thought he would tell someone?”

“Maybe,” she says skeptically. “Go on.”

“I said _: He doesn’t know, Mary, please. Please don’t hurt him_.”

“Right. And she said: _I know. I won’t._ _I’ll take good care of him for you._ And Sherlock, you believed her in that moment. Yes?”

“I did. I believed her all along.” He shrugs. “It was my biggest mistake.” 

“Hmm.” Irene considers him for a long moment, thoughtful. Finally, she nods to herself, as if a decision has been made. “Let me ask you a question, Sherlock. It’s not an easy one.”

“Well, this has been nothing but fun so far, so by all means.”

She ignores his quip, and leans forward, intently. “What if… what would it mean if your instincts were correct? What if she really did love him? What would be the implications of _that_?”

Sherlock stares at her, mouth falling open in surprise.

Irene nudges him impatiently. “Come on, you idiot, work with me. Let’s make a list of the possibilities. Number one.”

Sherlock shakes his head as if to clear it. His mouth works a moment before he is able to produce sound, and his voice is strained. “One. She didn’t know the building was rigged to explode.”

Irene nods. “All right. Likelihood?”

“Possible, I suppose, but slim,” he says hesitantly. “Sending in a full team without at least some forward reconnaissance breaks every protocol. The raid would never have been approved by Mary’s higher ups without the expected data.”

“Agreed. All right. Two.”

“Two. She sent him in knowingly.”

“Right. She willingly gave him up, like he was just an old toy. Likelihood?”

Sherlock shakes his head slowly. “We have agreed that all signs suggest that she had genuine affection for him. We know that at the very least, he represented something important to her. She wanted his regard. She was possessive of him.” He cocks his head. “I suppose she might have been forced into sending him, but I think that if her activities had been noticed by someone with that kind of power, they would have locked her down immediately. So… the likelihood is unknown, but at extreme odds with her behavior.” 

“Fine. Three.”

“She didn’t know he was on the team.”

“Nope. But?” 

Sherlock nods in agreement. “Likelihood, none. This was her project. God knows she’s detail oriented. But the team would have required upper level approval as well, so there wouldn’t have been any surprises.” 

Irene lifts an inquisitive eyebrow. “Might someone else have had it out for John?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Who? On the surface, he was an injured doctor with a desk job. He wasn’t that…” His voice catches. “…important.”

She hums sympathetically. “All right. Now. Four.” 

Sherlock shakes his head slowly.

“Sherlock. Come on. Four.”

Finally, in a hoarse whisper, “Four. She sent him in intentionally, but rigged it so he would survive.”

She nods, deadly serious. “Yes. And…”

Sherlock is frozen for a long minute, his gaze far away. Slowly his eyes regain their focus, and he swallows twice, hard, before he speaks. 

“It--oh god, Irene. It might have worked.” He stares at her for several seconds, before the light leaves his eyes. His shoulders slump. “But…the video.”

She nods slowly, biting her lip. “Yes. The video.” She cocks her head. “Moriarty certainly went to a lot of trouble to show you that video. What did he say? _‘For reasons best known to the powers that be, it was filmed.’_ So this wasn’t standard protocol, I take it?”

Sherlock shakes his head slowly. “No. Requires expensive equipment. Ties a man up during the action. Requires review and storage. Exposes the Navy to liability. You would never film a routine raid, only a major event.” 

She grimaces. “Well, then. I guess there’s nothing for it. Cue the video.” 

He flinches. “No.”

“Sherlock, there’s something there. You know this. We need to find it.”

Sherlock looks at her, pleadingly. “Irene, please. I can’t...I don’t think I watch it again.”

Irene sighs. “You’re not doing this alone. Come on. Let’s see it.”

Sherlock just shakes his head. Irene regards him with a mix of resolve and regret. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Can you forget your damn _feelings_ for just a few minutes? Get out of your heart and into your head,” she says with some heat. “This is a case and you’re _missing_ something. It’s important, too, or you wouldn’t have me being such a bitch. Come on, now, Holmes. You’ve seen it before, you know how it ends.”

Sherlock rears back, surprised. “Jesus, Irene. Are you always this tough?” He sighs, and then draws in a breath to brace himself. “Fine. Fine. You’re obviously not going to leave me alone, so…let’s do this.”

_The factory flickers into view, and then John Watson’s face fills the frame. “We clear, then? Right, let’s go.”_

Sherlock draws in a sharp breath as if he’s been struck. Irene reaches over to take his hand, but he shakes her off. 

_The camera follows John’s hand as it reaches for the factory door._

“Was it unlocked?” Irene murmurs.

“I think they picked the lock before they started filming.” The view freezes. “Look there, recent scratches, and fingerprint streaks in the dust. You can see footprints there by the door.” 

“All right. John’s going in first. Let’s keep going.” Sherlock hesitates, but Irene squeezes his arm in encouragement. “Roll it.”

The camera pulls back to bring the back of John’s head into view.

“How many people on the team?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow in focus. “I count five.”

“Is that an appropriate number?”

“Unclear. They needed one extra man for the camera. Mycroft told me they expected to find records rather than drugs or equipment, so they wouldn’t need a lot of men to move bulky things. One man would have been a tech officer, in charge of getting the lights to work and things like that.“

_The team enters the large, black space. The warehouse is empty._

“Nothing there,” Sherlock murmurs. 

Irene nods in agreement. “Almost aggressively empty, I’d say.” 

_John’s face comes back into the frame. “This doesn’t make sense, Bobby,” he says to the man holding the camera. “I saw the reports, and…oh.” John’s eyes widen. “Oh, God. It’s a trap. IT’S A TRAP! OUT! EVERYBODY OUT!”_

“All right, hold it there,” Irene says. “John had been briefed, he had seen the reports. So the reports were…”

“Flawed or forged,” Sherlock breaks in. “This was in a fairly unpopulated area, but it was still within a busy city. No one could move things in or out of a monitored building without notice, so most likely the reports were fabrications.”

_The cameraman starts running for the door. John’s voice can be heard over the din of panicked voices and feet stomping. “GET OUT! RUN! Blackie, watch your…no, I’ve got it, go! GO!”_

“Got what, do you think?” Irene whispers.

“Unclear,” Sherlock replies, distracted. 

_The door slams open, and the screen brightens with the sudden light of the street. “John! Where’s John?” Sudden view of cloudless sky. “WATSON! WHO’S GOT EYES ON WATSON?”_

_Bang_

_BOOM_

_Black._

Sherlock’s eyes are squeezed tightly shut. Irene looks down and away for a minute.

“Sherlock?” she says quietly. “There’s something there we need to consider.” 

He breathes deeply for another minute before opening his eyes. “All right. All right,” he says, taking another deep breath. “No one saw him. He didn’t get out of the building.” 

“Right. And that matters because…”

“It doesn’t matter. Oh god, it doesn’t matter.” He squeezes his eyes shut again.

“It does, though.” Her voice is patient. “Come on, Sherlock. This is what you do. It matters because…”

Sherlock rubs his hand across his face, and then nods. “It matters because…”

“It matters because of what Moriarty told you.” 

His eyes fly open. “What?”

“Remember? At the planetarium.  ‘… _it was the front of the building that was wired. The building exploded outwards into the street. The camera only survived because it got thrown clear by the blast. Getting out didn’t do them any good at all.’_ So escaping the building didn’t help...” 

Sherlock draws in a sharp breath. “But staying inside…”

“Might have.”

Irene moves closer and places a careful hand on Sherlock’s pale, shocked face.

“That’s what Jim was trying to tell you, darling,” she says quietly. “John could have survived the explosion.”

Tears come to his eyes. “Oh, god. He…John…”

“… _could_ still be alive.”

Raindrops, huge and forceful, begin to splash into the water around them. 

“Right,” says John. “I’ll take it from here.”

 

**-Cue Credits-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal gratitude to 221bJen and Enduring Chill. They are good friends and great betas.
> 
> This chapter and the next are based on the Magnum, PI episode "Home from the Sea," largely considered one of the best episodes of the entire series. To bastardize Somerset Maugham: Without this episode, I should perhaps not have thought it worthwhile to write this fic.
> 
> Sherlock's definition of "hallucination" is taken from Kolb & Brodie in Modern Clinical Psychiatry (H.K.H. Philadelphia: W. B. Saunders; 1982). Clinical understanding of hallucinations has progressed along with the rest of human medicine, but this suited the story and was temporally appropriate.


	9. Stuffs and Necessaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stop it. Just…stop this.” John’s gaze is soft, but his voice is low and serious. “This is an order: Lieutenant Commander Holmes, you _will_ survive this.”

_**Last time on Sherlock, PI:** In revenge for Moriarty's disappearance, his henchman and sometime lover, Sebastian Moran, has dumped Sherlock in the ocean and left him to die. Adrift and with a concerning storm on the horizon, Sherlock's mind conjures up some company._  
___

The sky grows dark, and the rain starts pouring down in earnest. Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice. He is staring at John, speechless. 

“Well.” John clears his throat and grins shyly. “Um. Hello there. It’s been a while.” Sherlock is frozen, still staring. John reaches out and, after a brief moment of hesitation, rubs a thumb along Sherlock’s cheek. “You with me, love?”

Sherlock starts at the endearment. “ _John_ ,” he says, the word almost reverent. He searches John’s face. “John,” he says, stronger this time. “My god. You’re so…I haven’t let myself see you for so long.”

John smiles. “Just the dreams, yeah? The nightmares,” he says softly. “I know. It’s all right.” He smooths Sherlock’s wet hair back from his forehead. “I know how it hurts. But Christ, I’ve missed you.”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock sighs _._ “Of course.” He leans forward, resting his forehead against John’s and closing his eyes. “Of _course_ you’d come to me at the end.”

“Oh, no. No way. Listen.” John leans back to catch his eye. “We need to make an agreement, you and I.” John’s expression is serious, and his gaze intense. “You have to stay focused now, do you understand? You have to survive this. That bastard does _not_ get to take you out.” He shakes his head. ”Not like this.”

Sherlock nods, distracted. He stares at John’s mouth as he speaks, licking his own lips.

“If your eyes are on me instead of this storm, if I get in the way of you making it through this, I will have to leave. I’ll do whatever I can to help you through this, but I can’t be a distraction, I just can’t. Do you understand?”

Sherlock does not respond, but instead lifts John’s hand from the water and studies it closely, turning it over and tracing the veins across the back with a wrinkled finger.

John’s eyes close for a moment at his touch, but then he pulls his hand from Sherlock’s and uses the index finger to raise Sherlock’s chin. Their eyes meet. “Sherlock. This is exactly what I’m talking about, here.” He lifts his brows. “Do we have an agreement?”

“Oh. Sorry. Um, yes. I’m listening. I’ll do my best, I promise.” Sherlock lets his head fall forward until their foreheads touch again, and he sighs a deep sigh of contentment. “I’m just so bloody happy you’re here.”

John hums and smiles softly. They float together for a minute, John’s hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, until a crack of thunder startles them both.

XXXXX

Irene slips through the already open gate and stops to slide off her pumps. Her slender scarlet-tipped toes grip the sand as she stalks the beach with purpose. Her brow furrows with concentration as her eyes search every inch of the sand and gravel.

After nearly a mile, she comes around a large boulder to find Mycroft Holmes scowling at the ground in front of him, one hand braced against the rock as if for support. He is uncharacteristically pale and appears distressed. There is a light sheen of perspiration on his forehead.

Irene pulls up short and regards him with some caution. “Mr. Holmes. I see great minds think alike.” She takes a closer look at his face, and her expression changes to one of concern. “Mycroft. What is it?”

“Miss Adler,” Mycroft says, his voice harsh. “Here. It was here.” Irene’s eyebrows start to lift at his abrupt tone, before she is distracted by what he indicates with a shaking finger.

Mycroft draws in a deep breath. “Unmistakable footprints of size eleven Nike Eagles, with evidence of a slight pronation on the right. Tracks of another shoe, Clarks Wallabees, I believe, size forty-three, both worn at the heel. 

“Moran,” Irene states flatly. “Moriarty’s man, and a right asshole. He wore those ugly boots into my apartment.” Her eyes narrow. “Revenge. He wants revenge for Moriarty.”

Mycroft nods. “Seems likely,” he says. “Sherlock went out early as he always does, after stretching at the gate.” He gestures down the beach toward the mansion. “He ran his typical five miles down and doubled back.” He rubs his hand across his eyes. “He almost made it home, but someone--Moran, I assume--was waiting.”

He motions to the tracks in the sand. “It was a good fight, at least.  Sherlock knows some martial arts and did a bit of boxing in his Academy days, and there are signs that he had the advantage at several points, but then…” He slides his toes under a rock and nudges a syringe out from under it. 

"Oh, that son of a bitch," Irene breathes.

”Sedation of some type, obviously quick acting. You can see where Sherlock fell to his knees, there.” Mycroft spins to indicate a spot behind him. “He was dragged off toward the parking lot. There’s a loose section of chain link in the fence; it's been there awhile. You could make an opening large enough to pull a man through.” He sighs. “Sherlock insists on running in solitude. No one else was around to see anything.”

Irene covers her mouth with her hand for a moment. “All right. He didn’t kill him outright, so maybe there’s still time.” She scowls. “Wait. Mycroft. How the hell did Moran get out of jail? They caught him red-handed with Lestrade at the airport, and I identified him in line up. He should be locked up somewhere unpleasant, waiting for deportation.”

Mycroft nods slowly. “That is an excellent question, Miss Adler. He’s been out of custody for six days now. I called around. Strangely enough, no one knew how or why he’d been released.”

“So Moriarty had that kind of power, even after death.” Irene snorts. “Imagine.”

“Well, to be fair, no one really knows what happened in the planetarium, so it makes sense they would act in such a way to protect themselves. But no one seemed to have a record of the order to keep me fully informed, either.” He straightens, his face now a cold mask. “I look forward to researching these mysteries personally. But first, I need to find my brother.”

“ _We_ need to find your brother.” 

Mycroft looks at her with a quick smile. “As you say.”

“Where do we start?”

Mycroft scowls. “I have only one lead. It would appear that the late, unlamented Mr. Moriarty owned a yacht.” He looks out to the ocean. “It would be best for us to start work on this right away. I don’t like the look of those clouds.”

XXXXX

“Let’s assess the situation, shall we?” John says, squinting as he studies the clouds. “It looks like a fairly small storm, as these things go, so we have that going for us. No more than a dozen or so kilometers wide. The clouds aren’t very tall. The wind is gusting, but not violently, so we can hope there aren’t any hot spots. The temperature hasn’t dropped more than a few degrees.” He grins. “And we’re talking those wimpy Fahrenheit degrees, too, so it’s even better than it sounds.”

Sherlock nods, amused.

“The swells aren’t too bad,” John continues, gesturing around them. “We can’t calculate a storm score without actual wind speed and barometric pressure, but for our purposes, ‘not too bad, could be worse’ will do.”

John looks from the sea to Sherlock. 

“Did you have anything to add to my analysis, Professor?” John asks, eyes twinkling. “I’m sure I missed some key piece of evidence. I probably should be able to calculate atmospheric turbulence by, I don’t know, the ratio of green to black in seaweed or something, but…”

Sherlock bites his lip as he looks overhead. “I’m a little concerned about the general color of the sky, and I could do without that oppositional movement there.” He gestures to a point in the distance. “Overall, however, your assessment is sound.”

John nods. “All right. Then let’s take advantage of the situation, shall we? Open your mouth and take in some rain water. Not too much, mind.” 

Sherlock looks to the sky and obediently opens his mouth. Rain spatters his face.

“There, that’s good for now,” John says after a minute. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock swallows and tilts his head, considering. “Not too bad, actually. Chilled, but not shivering. I’m not especially hungry, but that’s probably a combination of stress and habit.” He shrugs. “I got a burst of epinephrine when the dolphins showed up and I’m a bit hungover from that, but otherwise, I’m surprisingly all right.”

John nods. “Down to all the running, I suppose. You’re as fit as you’ve ever been. It’s a good time for you to be facing an endurance test.”

Sherlock nods in agreement. “I probably swallowed some sea water when Moran pushed me overboard, but I’ve been careful since. And it’s not like treading water is all that strenuous. Anyway, there’s no point in swimming against the current, since the waves are so strong out here.” He looks out at the waves. “I can’t gauge my drift without seeing the coast, but I feel like I’m moving. I’m pretty sure I’m caught in the Molokai Express, so god knows where I’ll end up.”

“So you’re better off not fighting.” John grins. “That must be tough for you.”

Sherlock grins back. “You have no idea.”

Sherlock’s smile fades slowly as his gaze becomes more intense. John looks back with equal scrutiny.

“Could it be true, John?” Sherlock finally murmurs. “Could you be alive after all this time?”

John takes Sherlock’s hand and brings it to his mouth for a brief kiss. “I don’t know. But you’re letting yourself see me, so you seem to think it’s at least theoretically possible.”

Sherlock smirks. “Well, as it happens, there’s also a reasonable chance of me dying.” He indicates the sky with his other hand. “Adrift in a storm at sea with night at hand, and no body fat to speak of. The odds are not good.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I might as well allow myself some comfort.”

“And is this…comfort enough?” John says carefully.

“What do you… _oh_ ,” Sherlock says, as John’s shirt disappears. John’s shoulders are wide and strong and well muscled, and his scars are nearly invisible. His hair is dry in the now driving rain. 

John moves in front of him and to within a few inches of touching him.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” John asks softly, his gaze soft and searching. His eyes settle on Sherlock’s mouth, and he starts to lean in.

“Don’t kiss me, John,” Sherlock blurts out. “Not on the mouth. I can’t take it. I will fall apart, and nothing will be able to put me back together. Promise me you won’t try.” 

“All right. I won’t.” John leans back nods, solemn. “But…tell me, Sherlock. Do you ever think about me?”

Sherlock laughs once, a choked burst of sound. “Never.” Then a sad smile crosses his face. “Every day.”

John echoes his expression. “I mean like this,” he murmurs, pressing up against him. He wraps his arms around him and nuzzles at the point where his shoulder meets his neck. Sherlock hesitates at first, but then slides one long arm up John’s back to the nape of his neck to pull him closer. He rubs his cheek against John’s hair and lets out a long sigh.

“Memories, yes,” he whispers. “When I’m tired and my defenses are down, I’ll let myself remember. But new things, fantasies, what you would be like now…” Sherlock shakes his head. “It was too raw after you left. And then I met Mary, and well, you…you’d moved on. After that, I couldn’t imagine you without seeing her at your side.” He clenches his eyes shut. “I never got the chance to get used to the idea. The factory saw to that.” He sighs again, sadly. “I don’t think I ever would have, honestly.”

“I know. I _know_ ,” John whispers back. “But there’s more to all of this than you thought. You’re just beginning to realize how complicated this situation might be.”

Sherlock nods, his eyes still closed, and pulls John even closer.  “I’m not even sure where to begin,” he confesses in a whisper.

John trails his lips over Sherlock’s ear, kissing lightly once, twice, humming low. “I think…we go back to the factory.”

XXXXX

“That’s the Harbor Master, there,” Molly whispers. She hands Irene the binoculars. “The tall man. See him?”

“Oh. _Excellent_.” Irene grins. “He’s a client of mine. This is going to be child’s play.” She hums, thoughtful. “That’s a problem, though. He knows me. He’ll know I’m up to something. I can’t do it.”  She lowers the binoculars and casts Molly a sly sideways glance. “Are you game, Doctor Hooper?”

“Game for what?” Molly asks, suspiciously.

“Well, it’s a big harbor. We need to know where this boat is, when it’s gone out, and when it’s come back. Basically, we need him in the mood to talk. Right?”

“I suppose.”

“Well, unbutton those top two buttons, shake out your hair, and trade shoes with me. Do what I tell you, sweetheart, and he won’t ever shut up.” 

Molly blinks, and then draws in a deep breath as she reaches for the collar on her shirt. “Sherlock, you bastard, you damn well owe me,” she mutters.

XXXXX

John is licking Sherlock’s collarbone.

“You should drink some more,” he murmurs. “You’ll start to feel lightheaded if you get too dehydrated, and that won’t help either of us.” He pulls back and looks at Sherlock’s lips, eyes half closed and dreamy. “Are you producing urine?” 

“Oh for Christ’s…are you kidding me?” Sherlock rears back, incredulous. “Are you going to ask me about my fiber intake next?”

John chuckles, low in his chest. “Sorry. Bad timing.” He leans in to nuzzle Sherlock’s jaw. “Can’t stop being a doctor, though. You know that.”

“Apparently.” Sherlock lifts his chin, and John obligingly starts to mouth at his neck. “Mmmm. That’s nice.” 

John hums agreement. “Storm’s getting worse. Bigger swells. More wind,” he murmurs.

Sherlock sighs. “Yeah. I noticed.” 

John moves to the other side of his throat. “Are you getting tired?”

Sherlock tilts his head, eyes closed, as John’s lips glide across his skin and down to his shoulder. “To be honest, yes, I am. It’s getting harder to stay on top of these waves.”

“Well, take another drink, and then let’s talk about the factory. That should keep you awake.”

Sherlock frowns. “Killjoy.” He opens his mouth and starts catching raindrops.

“That’s good. Just a bit more.” John licks his lips as he watches. “God, your mouth. That shouldn’t be as hot as it is.”

Sherlock coughs and chokes a bit, laughing. “Is this where I make a joke about swallowing?”

John groans. “Don’t you dare. You swallowing is _never_ a joke.” He grins. "All right. The factory. Something pulled me back from the rest of the team. I said _, ‘GET OUT! RUN! Blackie, watch your…no, I’ve got it, go! GO!’_ Blackie was killed in the explosion, right?”

“Mycroft said the entire team was lost.” Sherlock shrugs. “You were on that list, though, so who knows.”

“It’s hard to fake bodies in the street.” John shakes his head sadly. “That’s a shame. Blackie was a good guy.” 

“What was Blackie’s role on the team?”

“I don’t remember.” John purses his lips, considering. “We know he wasn’t the cameraman.”

“Right. You called the cameraman…Bob, I think?”

John nods. “Bobby. I told him I had seen the reports and the emptiness of the factory didn’t make sense. OK, wait.” He scowls. “If he was part of the regular squad, he would have known that already, would have gotten the full brief. Hmmm.” John tilts his head. “Late addition? There’s no real reason for this raid to be filmed. So…oh. He was a plant. He was there to make sure what happened actually happened. Or was he just supposed to record it? For… Mary? Someone?” 

Sherlock nods along. “All possible. Everyone else would have required that briefing, would have needed to know their job. The cameraman was just there to watch. But Blackie…Blackie what? Dropped something? Heard something?”

“Both, maybe. We’ll never know, unless you find me and get me to tell you.”

“If I get out of this, I might do some clean-up processing on the audio. There might be something there that clears up this confusion. There’s a lot of chatter and background noise in that video.”

“Good idea. So…if we assume for now that Bobby was some kind of plant, it’s his job to what, bear witness? Make sure we all leave? Does he even know why he’s there?” John’s eyes widen. “Shit. Was he killed intentionally?”

Sherlock grips his hair in frustration. “I don’t know. I don’t know! God, this is frustrating.” 

John smiles softly. He moves behind Sherlock and starts massaging his shoulders. “Getting upset won’t help. You can’t make bricks without clay, Sherlock. Relax. Let’s get you out of the ocean. You’ll figure it out at home.”

Sherlock shakes his head, defiant. “You started all of this. You can’t distract me from it now, John.”

“Can’t I?” John smirks. His hands drift down from Sherlock’s shoulders to wrap around his middle, pulling him back against John’s chest. He leans his head in to nuzzle against Sherlock’s ear as his hands slide slowly downward, underneath the water line.

Sherlock gasps, and leans into the touch. “All right, apparently I’m wrong. You _can_ distract me. Point made.” 

John laughs softly. “Yes, a point has definitely been made. Firmly. A very firm point.” His tongue flicks out to lick Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock shivers.

“John, I am saddened to have to admit to a huge gap in my formal education.”

“Mmm. Do tell.”

“I have absolutely no idea if sharks are attracted to semen. The Naval Academy let me down.” 

John chuckles. “I see. Is this relevant?”

“I suspect it might become so, and quite soon, too.”

XXXXX

Molly, Irene, and Mycroft are huddled behind a freight container. Just around the corner and across a wide walkway, the Yellow Rose is in dock. Below decks, the soft glow of a lamp glimmers through a porthole. The sun is beginning to set. Irene is watching the ship through binoculars, well hidden by the container.

“It must be Moran in there,” Irene murmurs.

Molly nods. “The Harbor Master said he’s always alone and has had no visitors. The boat went out early this morning for the first time since she was signed in just over three weeks ago. He ordered diesel for tomorrow, so he must be planning to leave.” Her voice catches, but she composes herself and continues. “His business here must be completed.”

Mycroft slides on a pair of black leather gloves. From a jacket pocket, he pulls out a Smith and Wesson MK-22 pistol. He checks the sights, and starts attaching a silencer. Both women watch him closely. “Umm…Mycroft?” Molly finally says, tentative.

“Stay here and keep watch,” Mycroft says, as if he hasn’t heard her.  “I’ll handle this.”

“Wait. We _can_ back you up, Mycroft,” Irene says. “Molly is an expert kick boxer, and I’m not entirely useless in a fight.”

“Thank you, Miss Adler, I am aware of your…skills.” He does not look up as he loads the gun. “Please do not mistake this for chivalry. Certain sensitive truths might need to be revealed, and it would be best to limit your exposure. It would be best for all concerned if you could maintain deniability.”

Molly stares, but Irene just shakes her head and grins. “You’re so full of shit. It’s obvious what you are, Mycroft." 

Mycroft clicks the safety, and then looks up directly into Irene’s eyes. His face is pale and serious. “No, Miss Adler, it is _not_.”

Irene starts to answer, but is stopped by his expression. Her smile fades and her brow furrows as they stare at each other. Finally, she speaks. “You’re right, of course, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know what I was thinking. We will wait here for you. Is there a signal?”

“Yes. If the boat leaves, call the Coast Guard. Otherwise, I’ll come for you.” 

Irene impulsively grabs his arm. “Mycroft, be careful.”

He nods, and then slips quietly around the container and toward the dock.

“Irene?” Molly whispers. “What the hell just happened?”

Irene smiles, but there is no humor in it. “Unless I miss my guess, Mycroft Holmes just came out of retirement.”

XXXXX

“The rain should be slowing by now.” John frowns at the sky. “The storm must have grown.”

Sherlock looks out to where the horizon should be visible. “I can’t tell. It’s getting too dark. This…isn’t good, John. I’m getting cold.” 

“Are you shivering?”

A massive shiver shakes Sherlock’s frame. “A bit.” 

“Fuck.” John grasps his face in both hands. “You have to survive this, you have to. Do you hear me? Stay awake. Talk to me. Let’s figure something else out. Another piece of the puzzle.”

Another shiver. “Right.” Sherlock nods. “Let’s see. Moriarty. Moriarty must have figured out that you are alive. That’s what brought him here.”

“Right.” John nods definitively. “He came here to…what? Tell you? No. He thought you knew. That day at the Diogenes Club. He was honestly shocked that you didn’t know.”

“Right. So…I’d assume he came here to punish me for breaking our agreement.”

“Jesus.” John looks up to the clouds, and then back at Sherlock, his face grim. “I’m so glad that fucker is dead. I can’t tell you. Though…” his voice softens. “I am sorry you had to be the one to do it.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I’m not. This madness started with me. It was right that I was the one to end it.” 

“Still.” John grimaces, preparing to go on, but Sherlock holds up a hand to still him.

“Wait. Just a minute.” Sherlock frowns in concentration. “How did Moriarty find out?” he asks. “John, what are you doing, that would make you come to his attention?”

“Hmmm. Well, we know he works with Mary. Maybe she let it slip?”

Sherlock is staring at him, aghast. “My god. This didn’t even cross my mind. You’re still with her, aren’t you? She faked your death…and put you undercover. You’re working for her. She’s still working within the chain of command, but you...Jesus. You’re without accountability. Are you helping her from the civilian side? Are you still in the service? _Jesus_.” He pushes away from John. “What are you managing for her? Smuggling? Drugs? Human trafficking?”

“You stop _right there_.” John raises a single finger in his face. His expression is one of fury. “You know better than that. Remember how angry I was when I thought you might commit treason for me? The only military regulation I’ve _ever_ broken was the one that forbade me from your bed. So just back the hell off and think about this.”

Sherlock shakes his head, desperation in his face. “I don’t know what to think.”

“All right, then. Mycroft. Think about Mycroft. He knows I’m alive, right?”

Sherlock is wild-eyed, nearly in panic. “I don’t know. How do I know that?” 

“Calm down, Sherlock, and _think_. Moriarty said as much that day at the Diogenes. Remember? _‘Give your brother my best, won’t you? I do admire him so.’_ When he was leaving, right after he laughed at you for…not knowing. And you know he’s tried to talk to you about me. He’s just failed at it. _”_

Sherlock shakes his head. “It doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t he tell me?”

“He would have, if I had been up to no good. He’d have asked you for help, or at least warned you. I mean, hell, you’ve wondered. You even talked to him about it out here, right?” John motions to the water around them. “He _was_ hiding something, but he wanted to tell you. He just didn’t know how.”

Sherlock stares at him. “Maybe…but really, how hard is it to give someone news that will be welcome?”

“You mean, how hard is it to tell a depressed recovering drug addict that his long lost male lover, who was engaged to the woman who tried to kill him and who died under mysterious circumstances while he himself fought for life, is actually alive and undercover? Should he have done it before or after Mrs. Hudson’s building exploded around you?”

Sherlock starts to argue, but then hesitates. After a moment, he quirks a half smile. “When you put it that way, it sounds almost kind.”

John shrugs. “I don’t know the man, but it seems like he cares for you. Maybe he just panicked.”

“Mycroft doesn’t panic. It’s one of the things I admire about him.” Sherlock looks at the rising waves around them, obscured now by the deepening dark. “However, this would be a fantastic time for him to develop a sense of urgency.”

XXXXX

 

Silently, smoothly, Mycroft descends the stairs into the lower deck of the ship. Moran is seated at a table facing aft, absorbed in navigation charts. A glass of whiskey sits close at hand. A scanner broadcasts the local Coast Guard radio feed.

Mycroft raises his gun, and walks slowly across the cabin. When he is five feet away, a floor board creaks, and Moran’s eyes rise to meet Mycroft’s in the reflection of the mirrored window.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Moran says neutrally. “Why am I not surprised?”

Quickly, Mycroft closes the space between them and holds his gun to Moran’s head. “It seems our mutual reputations precede us, Mr. Moran.”

Moran smiles and slowly raises his hands. “You find me at my ease, sir. Surely it isn’t cricket to shoot an unarmed man. Laws of combat and all that. One mustn’t shame the Commonwealth.”

“Yes, that is true." Mycroft nods, his expression thoughtful. "An officer must always be a gentleman.” His face goes cold. "How unfortunate for you that I always served my country in an unofficial capacity. No oaths of loyalty. No code of honor." He cocks his gun. “No rules of engagement.”

Moran’s face blanches, and his hands begin to shake.

“Mr. Moran, I wonder: have you seen my brother lately?” 

XXXXX 

John and Sherlock float side by side, silently, in the now complete dark.

“John.”

“Yes, Sherlock.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be silly. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“There is, though. I do know you. You’re a good man to the core.”

John shrugs. “We didn’t know each other for very long, when it comes down to it. It’s understandable.”

“Still. At the very least, we served together. We were under fire together, after a fashion. I do know better.”

“It’s all right.”

There’s a long pause.

“It’s getting colder. And dark. It’s so dark. This is the blackest I’ve ever seen the ocean." 

“It’s going to be all right, Sherlock.” 

Another long pause.

“John.” 

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“…Hold my hand, will you?”

John sighs sadly. “Of course, Sherlock.”

XXXXX

Molly bursts, wild eyed, into the Harbor Master’s office. 

“Back so soon, little lady?” The tall man from before stands slowly, grinning lasciviously as he looks her over from head to toe.

“Telephone! I need your telephone!” Molly pants. She lunges for the man’s desk, shoving him out of the way. She dials quickly with a quaking hand.

“Greg! Greg, yeah…No, hush up, listen! Get your ass into the chopper and get over here now. We’re at the harbor. Bring the big flood light. And blankets! Bring blankets!”

She hangs up and turns to rush out of the room, but the Harbor Master reaches out to intercept her. “And where are you headed in such a hurry, pretty one?” he croons, holding her wrists.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” she mutters, exasperated. She quickly breaks his grip, and then pulls back to stomp on one instep with a sharp heel. He stumbles, surprised, and she shoves hard on his shoulders to land him, dazed, in his office chair.

“Um, sorry. It’s not you, it’s me. Gotta go.” She races out the door.

XXXXX

The rain is relentless now, and the occasional flashes of lightning only serve to show rough the seas have become. The thunder quickly follows, and is nearly deafening.

Sherlock’s teeth are constantly chattering now, but he rallies to speak. “John? I have a confession.”

“What horrible sins have you committed lately?”

Sherlock grins. “The truth is: I really, really hate the ocean.”

John chuffs a laugh. “All of it?”

“Well, I met some nice dolphins earlier, but other than that…yes.”

“You’re a Naval Academy graduate, Sherlock. You sought out a career with the one major military service dedicated to the ocean. You even did surface tours before you started intelligence work.”

Sherlock shakes his head ruefully. “And if I’d known then what I know now…”

John laughs. Sherlock smiles to see it, but after a minute, the smile fades. His expression becomes solemn. 

“The real truth is: I’m tired. I’m tired, John. I’m tired of this…” He waves at the water, at the clouds, before locking eyes with John. “…And most of all, I’m tired of living without you.”

John bites his lip. “Sherlock…” 

“Hush, now. We both know that this isn’t looking good, so let me say this while I can.” He lowers his eyes. “I’ve…never mourned you, not really.” He sighs. “That was intentional, because, well, I never wanted to get over you. That probably sounds pathetic. No, it definitely sounds pathetic. But now…” He draws in a deep breath. “Now we’ve had this time together, and even though it wasn’t real, it was more than I ever thought to have.” Sherlock blinks, holding back his tears. “My brother and my friends have failed me, and yet I find I feel nothing but gratitude. I’m so grateful for this time, John.” 

“Stop it. Just…stop this.” John’s gaze is soft, but his voice is low and serious. “You listen to me, now. I was probably promoted posthumously, as they always do, so I almost certainly outrank you. Therefore, this is an order: Lieutenant Commander Holmes, you _will_ survive this.”

“John…”

John shakes his head. “No. You have to find the truth. If I’m alive, I need you. You have to find me and save me from…something. Someone. And if we’re wrong, and I’m dead, you need to make sure of it…and then let me go.”

“I _can’t_.”

“You _will_.” John squeezes his hand. “Now. Enough of that foolishness. Down to business. Get through one minute more, and then the minute after that. Come on.”

XXXXX

Molly, Greg, Irene, and Mycroft huddle on the upper deck of the Yellow Rose. Mycroft and Greg consult a navigation chart on the small table. The wind has come up, blowing in from the sea, and a light rain is just starting. Irene is staring out at the storm-darkened horizon. Molly frowns at the sky from under the protective awning.

“I don’t know, Greg,” Molly says, biting her lip. “Is it safe for you to fly in this weather?”

“Is it safe for Sherlock to be floating in the ocean in this weather?” Greg retorts. “Come on, Molly. He’s been out there for hours. There’s no time.”

“Dr. Hooper does have a point, Lestrade,” Mycroft says. “Do your best to stay on the edges of the storm. If you see anything, give us the coordinates and we’ll move in. Moran said he threw him overboard here,” he says, indicating a point on the map. “Right at the mouth of the Molokai Express.” 

“And you’re sure he was telling the truth?” Irene asks over her shoulder.

“Oh, yes, quite sure.” Mycroft says blandly, without looking up. “The current has been particularly strong of late,” he continues. “Between that and the weather, he’s been dealing with serious drift. He could be anywhere between the drop point and Molokai, or he might have even been pushed the other way.” He motions to the map again. “Start here, Lestrade, closer to the island. I’m heading straight for the drop point. Let me know the second you see anything.”

“Acknowledged.” Greg turns to leave, but stops to give Molly a quick kiss. “I’ll be careful, Mols. I survived Vietnam. This isn’t my first storm.”

Molly nods, steady. “Just find him, Greg.” 

Greg nods. “We will.” He smiles and slips out the door.

Irene sidles up to Mycroft. “It’s up to you now, Captain. Do you know how to drive a boat?”

Mycroft sniffs. “Of course, but please…it’s a _yacht_.”

XXXXX

Sherlock’s head jerks repeatedly as he fights his body’s attempts to slip into sleep, and then on to something deeper.

John pokes him and nags at him. He sings to him and tells him stories. He recites the periodic table. He recites Shakespearean sonnets. He whispers to him, and he screams at him. Sherlock drowns in his voice while fighting not to sink under the waves. It’s a near thing more than once.

Finally, there’s a minute with no lightning, and the rain is falling quietly. John pauses his annotated list of the Apollo Missions and cocks his head, listening.

“Sherlock. _Sherlock.”_ John shakes his shoulder. “Do you hear that? I think it’s a boat.”

Sherlock lifts his head, bleary. “Another hallucination?”

“Don’t think so.” He squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates. “It’s a big boat. Sounds like a forty footer.”

Sherlock blinks, seemingly too exhausted to keep his eyes open for long.

“Someone…they’ve found me, John. I hear it. It’s Moriarty’s boat.”

John swears. “If it’s Moran, I’m going to _kill_ that son of a bitch.” 

Sherlock smiles, his lips cracking with the effort. “You’re not corporeal, John, but I appreciate the sentiment.” 

“Oh, right. Pity, that.”

A spotlight sweeps over them as a helicopter passes overhead. The beam comes back around, and then stays focused on them where they tread water.

“That’s Lestrade’s chopper. It's the good guys.” John squeezes Sherlock’s hand. “At last. Christ, it’s about bloody time.”

Sherlock licks his cracked lips and squints into the bright light. “Are you sure? Maybe I’ve died.”

Mycroft’s voice comes over the ship’s loudspeaker. “Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes! Don’t move. Stay where you are. We’ll get you out momentarily.”

Sherlock groans. “Oh, God, I did die and I’ve been assigned to hell.”

John laughs, a giddy sound. “When you’re on the boat, please be sure to ask him where the fuck he thought you were going to go.”

The helicopter drops a bit lower. Sherlock looks up and waves weakly.

John sighs. “Well. Your friends didn’t fail you after all.” He turns to face Sherlock, his brave smile not quite reaching his eyes. “It’s time for me to go, then.”

Sherlock looks at him, exhausted and sad. “John. You saved my life.”

John shakes his head and grins. “Nah, you saved your own. But sure, I’ll take the credit.” His grin fades, and after a moment, he looks down. “Well. I’ll miss you.”

“Wait, John. Just…let me look at you one more time. Please.”

“All right, then.” John lifts his head and smiles, eyes alight, hair dry, uniform again in place and perfect. ”What do you see?”

Sherlock swallows hard. “I see…the finest man I’ve ever known, my best friend, and the love of my life.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John winces. “We never said that.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. But I wish I had, every day.” He smiles then, eyes full of regret. “Damn it, I should have let you kiss me.”

“Next time.” John’s eyes are bright with tears, but his smile is blinding as he reaches out to again rub his thumb along Sherlock’s cheek. “Come find me, love,” he murmurs, and is gone.

XXXXX

Irene leans forward, life preserver in hand. “Careful, Mycroft. I see him. He’s just off the port bow.”

Molly bites her lip. “He looks so weak. God, how are we going to get him out?" 

Irene rolls her eyes. “I can handle an unconscious man, Molly.”

The boat pulls up alongside Sherlock. He is bobbing in the water, and appears to be talking to himself.

“Sherlock! _Sherlock_!” Irene gestures wildly. “Mycroft, shut off the engine and get back here. Molly, get the blankets. Sherlock! Catch this!” She throws the life preserver, and it lands neatly next to him. Sherlock manages to wrap his arm over it. Together, Irene, Mycroft and Molly pull him to the side of the boat. They lift him carefully from the water, and half carry, half drag him to a dry spot under the cover of the top deck. He lies exhausted on the deck as Molly takes his pulse. Irene starts to rubs his arms and legs vigorously with a towel, while Mycroft stands nearby, eyes bright and anxious.

After a few minutes, Sherlock’s eyes flicker open. His gaze roams blindly, until it locks on Mycroft’s face. The brothers exchange a long, open stare, until Sherlock’s expression hardens. Mycroft blinks and looks away.

Sherlock wordlessly waves Irene and Molly away. He lifts slowly to rest his weight on his elbows, and then his seat. He slumps for a moment, but brushes Molly away when she leans in to help. He manages to rise to his knees, and then uses a nearby deck chair to support his weight as he stands. It takes him another moment to find his balance, but then he takes the few steps to stand before his brother.

Sherlock’s skin is translucent, his lips are faintly blue, and his eyelashes are coated with salt. He coughs and swallows twice before he is able to produce a sound.  “Did you know?” comes out in a rough croak.

“About Moran? Of course not.” Mycroft lifts an eyebrow. “We got here as quickly as we could.”

“Thank you, but that’s not what I mean.” Sherlock draws in a deep breath. ”Did you know about John?”

“Oh. You haven’t wasted this time, I see.” Straightens. “Very well. Yes. Yes, I knew.”

“Since the briefing in LA?”

“…Yes.”

“And all this time, you didn’t tell me.” 

Mycroft opens his mouth to speak, but then just shakes his head. “No.”

With no warning, Sherlock rears back and throws a solid punch that connects with Mycroft’s startled face. The contact makes a satisfying crack, and Mycroft falls backward, blood streaming from his nose.

Sherlock’s knees buckle, but Irene catches him as he begins to fall. “That was a good punch,” she murmurs, as she lowers him to the deck, “but you should put your hips into it next time. Make it count.”

Sherlock sags, pale and shaking, but he manages a wan smile. “Thanks, Irene. I’ll keep it in mind." 

XXXXX

The morning sun is shining brightly on the Masters Estate, but inside the guest house, it’s dark and quiet. Sherlock, wearing striped cotton pajama bottoms and a blue bathrobe bearing the gold Naval Academy crest, trudges from the bedroom to the kitchen. The telephone starts ringing. Sherlock pours himself a glass of water and starts to drink it, staring at the telephone. It stops ringing just as Sherlock finishes. He grunts approvingly, puts the empty glass in the sink, and trudges back to the bedroom. 

**-Voiceover-**  
**Just like that, it was over. We made it back to shore ahead of the worst of the storm. Lestrade, bless him, was already waiting at the dock with dry clothes and several bottles of Gatorade. I refused paramedics or hospitalization, and when Molly tentatively suggested filing a police report, Mycroft’s single head shake led me to refuse that as well. That gesture and the faint smudge of gunpowder on his cuff told me all I needed to know about what had happened to Sebastian Moran, late of the fair city of London. I had no doubt justice had been served.**

The telephone starts ringing again. Sherlock pops his head back in through the bedroom door and stares at it. It rings a few more times, and he scowls. “Stop ringing now,” he says, in tones that brook no argument. The telephone stops ringing. He hums, satisfied.

**-Voiceover continues-**  
**Lestrade drove me home that night in Irene’s car. Mrs. Hudson was waiting at the guest house, blessedly silent for once. She embraced me, tightly, before sitting me down at a table set with soup, crackers, and fruit. Then she left me blessedly alone with a fond glance and strict instructions to eat. I wasn’t hungry in the least, and I didn’t leave a bite unfinished. Afterwards, I showered off the salt and fell into bed, where I stayed for the next fourteen hours.**

**I didn’t dream that night. I haven’t since.**

The telephone starts to ring again. Sherlock stalks into the kitchen, picks up the handset, and slams it back down. Silence. He turns and leaves.

**-Voiceover continues-**  
**Mycroft and I didn’t speak again after I hit him. I saw footprints going from the mansion to the guesthouse door and back again two days running, but he never rang the bell. Once I caught a glimpse of him with a glorious black eye through his office window as I walked the length of the driveway. I knew he had been the largest part of my rescue, and I’ll admit, I felt a tiny tinge of guilt about our estrangement, but it was going to take time for us to find our way back again.**

The telephone starts to ring again. “Oh, bloody hell!” Sherlock yells. He walks into the kitchen, picks up the phone by its base, yanks the cord out of the wall, and shoves the entire unit into the freezer. Nodding, he brushes his hands off and heads back to the sofa.

**-Voiceover continues-**  
**I knew I would need Mycroft’s help solving the puzzle of John’s fate, but it had only been a few days since I realized the enormity of the problem. I would have to face my brother (and reality) soon enough. In the meantime, I could close my eyes and remember John (his gentle touch, his shimmering silver-gold hair, his smiling ocean blue eyes) without the pain from before. Just for now, this would do.**

The doorbell chimes once, then again a few seconds later. Sherlock looks up to the door, obviously annoyed at a further disruption. It rings again, twice, insistent, and his scowl deepens. Muttering under his breath, he climbs the stairs with some petulance and throws open the door.

There, on the porch, solemn and alive, stands John Watson.

“Lieutenant Commander Holmes,” he says, nodding once sharply, in greeting. “I do hope Greg Lestrade was able to notify you that I would be coming over. I fear that I find myself in need of your services.”

Sherlock’s mouth drops open in shock. He takes one step back, and then another. “ _John_ ,” he says, a strangled moan.

Then, he collapses.

 

****

**-Cue Credits-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With all possible gratitude to 221bJen and EnduringChill for their great ideas and infinite patience.
> 
> The next/final chapter is under construction, and will be posted as soon as possible. Apologies for the delay. 
> 
> The title is from Shakespeare's The Tempest (Act 1, Scene 2). When Prospero was put out to sea, Gonzalo gave him some things to help him survive:  
> "A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,  
> Out of his charity, who being then appointed  
> Master of this design, did give us, with  
> Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries,  
> Which since have steadied much."


	10. Shadows Have Offended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I think I need to tell you what happened here six weeks ago.”

_**Beep…beep…beep…beep…** _

**“Any change?”**

**_Molly._ **

**“None. Neither for better nor worse.”**

**_Mycroft._ **

**“Want us to sit with him a bit? Give you a chance to eat?”**

**_Lestrade._ **

**“No need, thank you. I’ve something coming. But please, make yourselves comfortable.”**

**_(Screech of metal. Rattle of plastic. Industrial chairs. Floor is uniform, slick, unseamed. Likely linoleum of some kind.)_ **

**“…looks pretty good, all things considered. That cut on his face is healing nicely. Don’t you think, Molly?”**

**_Beep…beep…beep…beep…_  **

**“Mmm, yes.” ( _Sense of shadow across twilight darkness. Scents of strawberry shampoo, mint toothpaste.)_ “Looks like it will scar a bit, though. That’s a shame.”**

**“He’s still dependent on the nasal oxygen, but the risk of internal bleeding has passed. The MRI of his spleen was clear and his platelet count has returned to normal.” _(Mycroft’s voice, aimed away. Toward the ceiling? Uncomfortable topic?)_**

**“That’s one danger passed, then.” _(Deep sigh from Lestrade. Release of tension? Concern? Bleeding?)_ “Do they know why he won’t wake up?”**

**( _Wake up?)_**

**“No. No neurological trauma, no metabolic derangement, just…no.”**

**“Greg, I told you. His internal injuries would be serious, even without his history of previous trauma. And in any case, coma is not uncommon in cases of percussive injury. He’s…healing.”**

**_(Sound of skin brushing across a nylon windbreaker. Crinkle of a squeeze on the arm. Comforting touch. Why?)_ **

**_(Door opening.)_ **

**“Oh, hello, everyone. All present and accounted for, I see. That’s good. He needs to hear friendly voices. Hello, Sherlock, dear.”**

**_Mrs. Hudson._ **

**“Here you are, Mycroft. All the things you like. You need to eat, dear. You’re not doing our Sherlock any good by starving yourself.”**

**_(Scent of roasted chicken, garlic, pineapple? Mycroft hates pineapple. Carrots. Cake, chocolate and something else, banana…)_ **

**“Ah, your famous banana cake, and with chocolate frosting. I’m honored.” _(Rustle of plastic wrap and foil. Not wasting any time.)_ “Where is Dr. Watson?”**

**_Dr. Watson?_ **

**_John?_ **

XXXXX

Lying on his back, blinking awake.

“Oh, dear lord…you could have given the man some warning. Goodness.” Mrs. Hudson crouches at Sherlock’s side, nudging him into a more comfortable position. “Sherlock, dear? Are you all right?” She brushes his hair back and pats his cheek gently, shaking her head. “He’s only barely recovered from the one shock, another might have killed him. What were you thinking? And you a doctor,” she tuts.

John is peering down at Sherlock where he lies on the floor. He looks very confused.

“I’m sorry, but what just happened? What shock? How do you know who I am? And who the hell are _you_?”

“Oh, manners, Dr. Watson. Really.” Mrs. Hudson sighs, as she settles to her knees and starts to briskly rub Sherlock’s arms. “Why don’t you make yourself useful, and, I don’t know, get a cool flannel and a glass of water or something?” She gestures over her shoulder toward the kitchen, before turning her attention back to Sherlock. “Not very quick on his feet, is he?” she murmurs to Sherlock, conspiratorially.

John turns to make his way down the stairs. “I heard that, you know.”

Mrs. Hudson fusses over Sherlock while John clatters around in the kitchen. After a minute, he jogs back up the stairs. “Um, here,” he says, offering Mrs. Hudson a wet washcloth. He starts to offer Sherlock the drink, but a glare from Mrs. Hudson stays his hand. He looks around and ends up setting the water glass on the console table.

“Use a coaster, please,” Mrs. Hudson chides with a lifted eyebrow. She turns back to Sherlock. “You poor dear. Are you all right?”

Sherlock swallows and moves his mouth, trying to speak. “John,” he finally manages.

John reaches out a hand to help him up. “Hello, Lieutenant Commander.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Rough day?”

XXXXX

**_...beep….beep….beep….beep…._ **

**“…congratulations are in order.”**

**_Mycroft._ **

**“Yes, well. Um. Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”**

**_Molly._ **

**“Call me Mycroft, please. So, will you be resigning from the club?”**

**“Oh, no. It’s only a couple of weeks a quarter, and a couple of weekends a month. It won’t interfere with my responsibilities at the club at all. I rather like it there, you know. Though—it will be nice to get my hands dirty again. Oh, wait. I mean…oh, dear. Not in the morgue, though I like that too…”**

**( _Please. Stop her_.)**

**“It’s fine, Doctor. I understand completely.”**

**( _Oh, right. Moran.)_**

**“What does Mr. Lestrade think?”**

**“Well, he wasn’t too excited about it at first, honestly, but it’s not active duty or anything. No travel. Just teaching. Maybe filling in at the base morgue when they need it. And between you and me, I think he rather likes seeing me back in uniform.”**

**“As he should. The uniform suits you, Captain. I do rather like the sound of that. Captain.”**

**( _Uniform? Captain?)_**

**“Thank you, Mr.—Mycroft. I do, too.”**

**_(Ah._ _Molly has joined the reserves. Been promoted.)_**

**“I must admit, I’m beginning to see the appeal of public service.”**

**“Well, the water’s fine, Mycroft.”**

**Both chuckle.**

**( _Mycroft can chuckle?)_**

XXXXX

The Ferrari downshifts into a curve as it races toward town. Sherlock is driving.

“You got promoted,” Sherlock says into the tense silence.

John looks surprised. “Yes. How did you know?”

Sherlock nods wordlessly at the duffle that sits wedged at John’s feet. “Business card as a luggage tag. Different last name, but…” He shrugs and smiles faintly. “Congratulations, Commander.”

“Ah, right. Um, thanks.” John clears his throat and keeps his eyes on the road. “Well,” he says, after a moment, “I suppose I should explain why I’m here.” A pause. “I need your help.”

“My help. As…”

“As a skilled investigator familiar with the individuals in question.”

“I see,” Sherlock says quietly. His hands tighten on the steering wheel as he checks the rearview mirror. “So Moriarty, then.”

“Yeah.”

“This isn’t official,” Sherlock says thoughtfully. “You’re here on your own.” He takes a quick glance in John’s direction, but John is looking away. “Something happened at work.”

“Right in one.” John draws in a deep breath. “I’m not a field officer. My assignment right now is screening intelligence reports for any suggestion of biological or chemical weapon development. Anything that directly targets individuals. OK?”

Sherlock nods, carefully calm. “Why did they change your name?”

John sniffs. Sherlock can see his hand clench from the corner of his eye. “They wanted to give me a protected identity when I started doing this research, and it was an easy thing to set up. There was a botched mission, you see, and they just—well, they publicly announced that I hadn’t survived. Most of the team didn’t, frankly. Mary said they were afraid I’d become a target. Overkill, maybe, but…”

“Safety first,” Sherlock murmurs. “You don’t like it.”

“No, I don’t. But needs must, you know.” John visibly forces his hand to relax. “A few months ago, I started picking up chatter about a project on the civilian side. It was just a few words at first, random telegrams, telexes, codes on purchase orders, but I couldn’t fit them to any known project, so they went on the watch list. We were able to trace some, but not all of it, back to Moriarty. All the documents used the code word ‘Lazarus.’”

“Go on.”

“We have guidelines for these sorts of things, protocols, you know. I monitored it all closely, and when the chatter hit the threshold, I took it to my C.O.”

“The aforementioned Mary. Morstan. You’re still working for her.”

“Right. You met her once.”

Sherlock snorts, but waves that away. “And?”

“It was ignored.” John shakes his head. “I was told it was nothing and to go away.”

“Hmm. But you were still suspicious. Why?”

“The evidence was vague, but strong. Everything seemed to be centered here, in Honolulu.” John indicates the landscape outside the windshield. “There’s no research bases here, no companies that are known to do this sort of thing. It was something new, and in a major U.S. city. So I decided to keep an eye on it, just in case. I asked permission to come investigate anyway, but like I said--” John frowns. “I don’t usually get out into the field.”

“And what happened?”

“That’s the freaky thing. After another couple of days, total silence. No chatter whatsoever. Not a smidgen of intel. It’s like the project was shut down without any post mortem. The plug was pulled.”

“And this was when?”

“I reported it just over six weeks ago. We couldn’t figure it out. No one could explain it.”

“Oh, hell.” Sherlock slumps in his seat and with one hand, briefly rubs his eyes. John looks over, concerned.

“Hey. You OK?”

Sherlock takes in a deep breath and returns his hand to the wheel. “Let’s just get to the club. We’ll get you checked in, and then I think I need to tell you what happened here six weeks ago.”

XXXXX

**_...beep….beep….beep….beep…._ **

**_(Cart clattering in the hall. Meal delivery. Breakfast? Dinner?)_ **

**“…and oh look, that city councilman you called out for drunk driving and addiction to pornography has resigned quite suddenly, and is embroiled in what is purported to be a most contentious divorce. Ah, well. He was an idiot anyway. I wonder who will take that district.”**

**_Mycroft. (Newspaper rustle. Page turn.)_ **

**“They say the Dow Jones Average might break 3000 in the next couple of years. The economists are all quite up in arms about it. Must be nice for them, a bit of excitement for a change, hmmm? Oh, the drama.”**

**_(Page turn.)_ **

**“Well, imagine. Some overpaid athletes in bright, clingy costumes constructed of artificial materials hit a spherical object in the optimal manner so as to score…oh, hell. I’m actually reading the sport page. This is bloody pointless, isn’t it. Mine is the last voice you want to hear.”**

**_(Paper lowered. Silence. A sip of water. Water…Thirsty…)_ **

**“I’m sad to have to tell you, brother mine, that I’ve seen you look better. It should be so dramatic, that dark hair against the white sheets, but it really does not work in this lighting. You’d be mortified if you saw yourself. Really. You’re much more suited to natural light. “**

**( _Another sip.)_**

**“Let’s go find some.”**

**_(Deep sigh. Distress? Boredom?)_ **

**“I have to tell you that I’m very impressed by your dogged determination to see me driven mad by a lack of mental stimulation. Really. It’s quite astonishing, how far you are willing to go to win the point. Very well, I concede. You’ve won. It’s time to wake up now. Do you hear? Wake up. Now.”**

**_(Cool touch. Tentative. Slow, deliberate breathing.)_ **

**“You see, little brother, I’ve spent more than enough of my allotted time on this earth looking at you in hospital beds. You’re asking too much of me, Sherlock. It’s selfish. Enough now. Wake up.”**

**_(Hand tightening.)_ **

**“Please.”**

**_(A deep breath, held and then released.)_ **

**“All right, fine. In your own time, then. I’ll just take care of things around here.”**

**_(Newspaper rustle.)_ **

**_(Sentiment?)_ **

XXXXX

“What.” John narrows his eyes. His right hand clinches.

“That’s not a question.”

“Don’t start with me, Sherlock.” John says, voice low and tight with suppressed tension. “Say it again.”

“Look, you asked me for help. Why do I suddenly feel as though I’m being interrogated?”

John grits his teeth. “Say. It. Again.”

“I…Fine.” Sherlock closes his eyes tightly. “I shot him. I killed Jim Moriarty.”

“ _Shit.”_ John rubs his eyes and sighs. “You’re telling me that Moriarty came here, to the island. Taunted you. Threatened you. He _sent flowers_. He…he…”

“I think the phrase is, made a pass at me.”

John bangs his hands on the table and rises from his chair. He bows his head and flushes slowly with rage. His jaw tightens, and he swallows once, hard.

“Look, I…I didn’t have a choice, John,” Sherlock says softly. “He was buying the police force. He blew up a building. He kidnapped my friends. He tried to tell me…he showed me…well. He tried to kiss me, and I turned him down, and he said he was going to destroy an entire country because of it and _he would have_ ,” he says, voice rising. “You _know_ he would have. He had to be stopped.”

John sits down again, slowly shaking his head. “There is no record of his death anywhere. We’ve been watching. He disappeared off the grid completely. The entire Royal Navy has been trying to find this guy, and you offed him in…”

“A public building in daylight, yes.” Sherlock nods, eyes downcast. “Mycroft called in a lot of favors to keep it quiet.”

John considers him for several long moments. “You’re right,” he finally says, quietly. “He did have to be stopped. He was getting into some scary shit. Really high tech stuff.”

“Weapons development? He broke our deal, then,” Sherlock says in a distant voice.

“Not really. There’s no sign of chemical or biological development. But…”

“Nukes.” Sherlock sits up straight and meets John’s gaze, suddenly alert. “If it wasn’t either of those, it had to be nukes. _You_ would recognize the components. He was starting to work on nuclear weapons, wasn’t he,” he says flatly.

John continues to stare for another few moments before he shakes himself and looks away. “Yeah. Yeah, we think he was. Bloody hell, Sherlock.” He rubs his face and settles his shoulders. “All right.” He nods and takes a deep breath. “Let’s just move on. Christ. OK. His lieutenant. Sebastian Moran. Our sources put him here at about the same time, six weeks ago. Ever come across him?”

Sherlock closes his eyes again and sighs. “Just once,” he says, voice suddenly tired.

XXXXX

**_...beep….beep….beep….beep…._ **

**“…the drowsy hours are creeping.  
** **Hill and dale in slumber sleeping…”**

**_Mrs. Hudson._ **

**_(Singing. Lullaby?)_ **

**“…loved one’s watch am keeping,  
** **All through the night.”**

**_(…pleasant, actually. Soothing.)_ **

**“…the night,  
** **Midnight slumber close surround thee…”**

**_(Calming.)_ **

**“All through the night…”**

**_(She loves me.)_ **

XXXXX

The door of the estate guest house sits open, light spilling out into the dim of early evening. The sound of light, happy chatter filters through the dusk, but Sherlock sits alone on the stoop, staring vacantly at the cars in the driveway. John steps through the doorway, holding two glasses of scotch, and moves to his side. Sherlock looks up to take in his expression, sighs, and scoots over. “You might as well sit down,” he says.

John sits on the stair and hands him one of the drinks. They take sips in unison. Sherlock returns to his consideration of the evening, and John looks down at his hands on the glass, solemn.

“Was it a relapse?” John finally asks, quietly.

Sherlock sets down his glass. “You’ve been talking to Mrs. Hudson,” he says, unsurprised.

John hums in agreement. “She didn’t tell me much.”

“She doesn’t know much.” Sherlock looks at his feet on the step. “That’s intentional.”

John nods. “Yeah, I figured.”

Sherlock pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around his calves.

“What did she say?” he asks, looking back out to the grounds.

A faint smile comes to John’s lips. “She told me, in considerable detail, about how she met Mycroft at the Diogenes Club after the two of you moved here.”

“Oh, right,” Sherlock says, with a quiet smile. “He was partnered with her in a bridge tournament. He made the unwise decision to cast aspersions on her strategy.”

“And they switched partners, and she handed him his arse.”

Sherlock chuckles. “I love that story.”

John quirks a half smile as he watches Sherlock from the corner of his eye. “She said she asked him for another rubber, but he had to leave early to get home to check on his little brother.” He takes another sip of his scotch. “Seems he confided that you had recently been in hospital, and he thought you were taking too long to recover. He seemed quite concerned, in her opinion.” He looks back out to the grass. “Asked her if she knew of any good local therapists, apparently,” he says casually.

Sherlock smile fades, and he looks down at his feet. “I didn’t know that,” he murmurs. “I mean, I guess I knew he was concerned, but…”

John shifts to face him. “So, was it a relapse?” he says quietly.

Sherlock smiles a sad smile. “Hardly.”

“Sherlock, damn it…” John ducks his head to catch Sherlock’s eye. “Tell me,” he whispers.

Sherlock sighs. He looks away for several long moments, thoughtful.

“It was in Vietnam, of course. There was a raid,” he finally says, carefully. “A recon mission, actually. I led a team. We were careful, but…” His voice trails away.

“But?” John prompts, voice gentle.

Sherlock stops and closes his eyes, obviously struggling for words. “It was a trap. An ambush. I was the only one who made it through, and I probably shouldn’t have.”

“You were shot,” John says flatly.

Sherlock nods. “It was…bad. Pretty serious.” His hand lifts to touch his shirt over his scar. “I was in a coma for three days. There was a lot of organ damage, as you can imagine.”

John's eyes are shining now. “My god,” he says softly. One hand reaches out to rest gently on Sherlock’s knee. “I’m so sorry you went through that.”

Sherlock blinks slowly at John’s hand. “It’s why I left the Navy and moved here,” he says, quietly. “My brother arranged it all. I needed peace, and time to…get over. Um, things. Everything.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t talk about it much, you know. No one really knows what happened, not even Mycroft.” He smiles bitterly, then. “You would have been proud of me, John. I didn’t touch a single narcotic once we left Vietnam. Nothing. It was hell, but I stayed clean.”

“Jesus, no, Sherlock. I wouldn’t have wanted you to suffer. No wonder you took so long to recover.” John sucks in a deep breath. “Why didn’t you call me? Or at least send a message? We could have kept it a secret. I mean, I know it would have been risky, but I could have gotten special permission. I would have wanted to help.”

Sherlock’s gaze snaps to John’s face, and his eyes open wide. He starts to speak, stops, and then tries again. “You--you really don’t know, do you. I—You--oh god.” He slides his knee out from under John’s hand and stands to face him, visibly distressed. John looks up at him, brow creased with confusion and concern. “Mycroft told me about the factory explosion as soon as I woke up. None of his contacts would talk to him, because the mission was classified. You were on the deceased list. We had no way to know you had escaped the blast. We thought--that is, Mycroft--damn it!” He runs his hands through his hair in frustration, then puts his hands on his hips and steels himself. “John.” He takes a deep breath. “You have to understand. Until six weeks ago, I thought you were _dead_.”

John goes pale, and his face is a mask of shock. “What?”

XXXXX

**_...beep…beep…beep…beep…_ **

**“…chest radiographs appear clear, finally. They removed the nasal cannula about an hour ago and his oxygen levels have remained stable.”**

**_Mycroft._ **

**“So the fume damage wasn’t permanent?”**

**_Lestrade._ **

**_(Fumes?)_ **

**“So it would appear.”**

**“Oh, and they removed the bandages from his hands. That’s a good sign, right?”**

**“Indeed. The burns didn’t damage the nerves as much as the doctors originally feared. They are confident he’ll have full sensation and motion. My brother is the proverbial cat with nine lives.”**

**_(Burns. Fire?)_ **

**“You know, Mycroft--I’ve seen him handle a gun, I’ve seen him pick locks, I’ve seen him punch a guy, but none of it looked right on those hands, somehow. They look like the hands of a surgeon. Or a pianist, or something.”**

**_(Mycroft will tell him about the violin.)_ **

**“Mmm. Quite. He played violin when he was younger, you know.”**

**“I can see that. Any good?”**

**“Rather. I always hoped he would pick it back up, but, well. Too busy, I suppose.”**

**“Never say never, Mycroft.”**

**_(I do miss it, sometimes.)_ **

**“Of course not. May I buy you a coffee?”**

**_(Fire?)_ **

XXXXX

John jumps up and pulls the door to the guest house firmly closed, muffling the chatter. He stops to take a deep breath before turning back to face Sherlock where he stands on the sidewalk.

“But…she said…Sherlock, wait,” John says, nearly pleading. “She said you got the letter. She told me. She called you and you said you got it, and but you didn’t want to take the risk of drawing Moriarty’s attention to us. To me. You said you didn’t—you were glad I’d be safe, but we shouldn’t--”

“What letter? I never got a letter, John.”

John is shaking his head. “I sent you a letter,” he says insistently. “After the factory. I explained everything. Why my records were altered, why I was going undercover.”

Sherlock barks a bright laugh, but there is no humor in it. “I didn’t get a letter, John. I didn’t hear a goddamn _word_. I woke up from a coma to a world without you in it. I didn’t know you were still alive until Moriarty showed up here, and even then I had to deduce it.”

“But…that was only six weeks ago. Sherlock, it’s been _years_.”

“Believe me, I know.” Sherlock sinks back down to the stairs, all the fight suddenly gone from him. “I know exactly how long it’s been.”

“But, Mary. She said she talked to you,” John says, defeated. His shoulders slump and his face fills with sorrow. “She lied to me, Sherlock,” he whispers. 

“Oh, John,” Sherlock says sadly, as he unconsciously rubs at his scar again. “I’m sure she had good reason.”

XXXXX

**_...beep...beep...beep…beep…._ **

**_(Quiet.)_ **

**_(No carts, no footsteps in the hallway.)_ **

**_(Night.)_ **

**_(Very quiet.)_ **

**_(Alone.)_ **

**_(No, there's someone here.)_ **

**_(Body shifting in a plastic chair, deep breathing, gentle snore.)_ **

**_(Safe.)_ **

**_(Alone used to protect me.)_ **

**_(But now?)_ **

XXXXX

John stares vacantly out the passenger side window as Sherlock eases the Ferrari into the stream of morning traffic.

“You knew her. Before.” Sherlock says, matter of factly.

“Who?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Your C.O. Mary.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“You…had a relationship.”

“We…yeah.” John shifts in his seat and sighs. “Yeah, we did. I met her during my navy induction course. She was on staff at the Navy college then. She was a nurse by training, but obviously had grander ambitions.” He frowns and shakes his head. “It wasn’t serious, you know. At least I thought it wasn’t, but she was pretty upset when I decided to join the Marines. We broke up when I left for the commando course.”

“I see,” Sherlock says quietly.

“After you and I---well, after I got home from Vietnam, she reached out to me and recruited me for her team. It sounded almost too good to be true. A desk job using my medical skills—just what I thought I needed.”

“It wasn’t?”

John shrugs. “It was good, at first. Gave me a chance to, you know. Recover. Get my nerve back. But after a while, I got bored. You know. Restless. I wanted to see some action.”

Sherlock smiles. “Well, you are a Marine.”

John smiles back faintly for a moment. “After the factory explosion, Mary got very protective. Insisted on me going undercover, made me live on base, wouldn’t let me take any more field assignments.” He runs a hand through his hair. “It was frustrating. And she kept…you know. Flirting. It never really crossed the line, but—“

“You could have requested reassignment.”

John nods slowly. “I thought about it, believe me. But—this was important work, you know, and I was good at it, frankly. And…” He hesitates.

“What?” Sherlock glances over at him.

“Well. I figured, if Moriarty started to make a move, I’d see it, you know? He was a major surveillance targets. We kept a close eye on him. So I thought if he started back up, I’d catch it.”

“You were protecting me,” Sherlock says, surprised.

“Well, yes.” John bites his lip and looks back out the window. “Silly, I know,” he adds, as if an afterthought.

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but for once seems lost for words.

XXXXX

**_...beep….beep….beep….beep…._ **

**_(Clack of high heels on linoleum. Scent of spicy, elegant perfume. Snap of a sunglass case. Brief rattle of newspaper.)_ **

**“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Please tell me your brother hasn’t been reading you the obituaries.”**

**_Irene._ **

**“I can’t imagine what you think you’re doing, just lying there like that. It’s not funny, not at all. I really expect better of you.”**

**( _Tap of lacquered nails on metal bed rail. Something brushing against a silk jacket; her hair is down. Anger in her tone._ )**

**“Goddamn it, Sherlock. I didn’t tell you all of that so you’d run off and get yourself blown apart.”**

**( _Anger is self-directed.)_**

**“You absolute, complete, total fucking _moron_.”**

**( _Anger is not entirely self-directed.)_**

**“Have you _no_ sense of self-preservation? You had some idea of what you were up against, of what you were going to find. You couldn’t have called for help? We have a police force, you know. They aren’t completely useless. Or your brother? I’ve seen him in action, you know, and he is one scary bastard. I know _he_ knows people. Or how about your old friends, the goddamn United States Navy?”**

**_(Deep sigh. Frustrated.)_ **

**“Jesus, look at these bruises. They’re everywhere. This one is shaped like a star. You look like a tapestry. People pay me a fortune to make them look like this, and you go off and do it to yourself without effort for _free_.”**

**_(Bruises? Soft brush down the arm. Soothing.)_ **

**“Do you feel that, genius?”**

**( _Increase in pressure, one fingertip pressed into forearm…ah. Yes. Pain._ )**

**“You’re a mess, Sherlock, and you can’t even tell me to go to hell for saying it. This is just…”**

**( _Sniff. Hand smoothing my hair back. Brush of lips on my forehead.)_**

**“Jesus, Sherlock. If you don’t…you have to pull out of this, do you hear me? Wake up, or Dr. Watson will _kill_ me.”**

**_Dr. Watson._ **

**_John._ **

XXXXX

The elevator pings, and the doors open to reveal Irene, uncharacteristically casual in jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. Her hair is down, her feet are bare, and her lips are lacking their usual crimson gloss. Her chin is held high, though, and she meets Sherlock’s glare without flinching.

“Took you long enough,“ she says abruptly. She turns and leads them to the living room, pointing them toward the sofa. Before sitting, John looks around, taking in the luxurious furnishings, the exquisite art, and the rich carpeting. He stops to admire the floor to ceiling plate glass windows, just beginning to glow with the shimmer of the city beyond.

Sherlock, however, has his eyes locked on Irene. She sits across from them in an overstuffed chair, curling her feet up beneath her like a little girl. She meets his stare for a moment, and then looks down into her lap with a look of chagrin. “You haven’t introduced us,” she says quietly.

Sherlock nods, still not looking away. “Irene, this is Surgeon Commander John Watson, medical doctor, Royal Marine, intelligence expert, and war hero. John, this is Irene Adler. She spanks people for a living. Remember to wash your hands if you touch anything in the flat, and don’t turn around or she might stab you in the back.”

John looks between the two of them, obviously caught off guard. “Um, yes, hello,” he says, clearly confused.

Irene presses her lips together, disappointment in her eyes. “You’re angry. I told you then, I didn’t have a choice.”

“Maybe then, you didn’t. Things have changed, as you know.” He clenches his fists. “Tell me. Who sent the message? Who gave you the screws?”

“Screws?” John asks. “Is that a euphemism?”

“Later,” Sherlock hisses in his direction, his gaze never leaving Irene’s face. “ _Irene_. Who. No, wait. _Where_.”

She glares back. “They’ll kill me.”

“I won’t let them.”

“How will you stop them?”

Sherlock sniffs. “Guards for now. A more permanent solution as soon as I can manage it.”

Irene shakes her head. She unfolds her legs, stands, and walks over to the bar cart. With a slightly quivering hand, she pours a hearty measure of scotch.

“Um, Miss, Adler was it?” John shifts around to catch her eye, attempting a reassuring smile. “Right. Look, I’m not sure exactly what information Sherlock is asking for, but I can assure you, this situation is of international importance. You will have all the protections the U.S. State Department and British Naval Intelligence can offer.”

Irene lifts a skeptical eyebrow as her gaze slides to John’s face for a moment. She considers his determined expression before she turns to face Sherlock again. Staring at him, she sips her drink, deep in thought.

“Discreet guards,” she says finally.

John sighs in relief, but Sherlock scowls suspiciously.

“Only people I know personally,” she says. “Clients.”

“Well, maybe it would be best to…”John starts, but Sherlock cuts him off.

“Done.”

Irene stares a moment longer, eyes narrowed and calculating, before she appears to come to a decision. “All right.” She sinks back into her chair and takes a deep breath. “There’s a warehouse.”

XXXXX

**… _beep….beep….beep….beep…._**

**“…said just to talk to you, to let you hear my voice, but I’m not sure what to say. Um. Let’s see--”**

**_Lestrade._ **

**“…new rotor blades for the chopper. I didn’t think it would make a difference, but I can really feel it. It changes the angle just enough that…well. You’d tell me that was boring, wouldn’t you.”**

**_(It is.)_ **

**“I suppose it is, at that. Still rude, though. But right now…it would be nice to hear you say it.”**

**_(Sentiment.)_ **

**“Oh, get this. Some of the boys at the airfield are pulling together a rugby team, and you know what, Mycroft said that Robin Masters would be willing to sponsor us. He’ll buy us better gear and real team jerseys and all that. I have to say, I was shocked. Nice of him, though. Mycroft won’t have to buy himself a beer for the next five years. I forgot Robin Masters even existed, to tell you the truth.”**

**_(Huh. So did I.)_ **

**“So. You’re going to get better, yeah? Yeah. Of course you are. Your brother wouldn’t have it any other way. And Molly, god. I don’t think she’s slept since she got the phone call.”**

**_(That’s…sweet, actually.)_ **

**“And…I sort of…miss you. I mean, well, yeah. The thing is, I’m getting pretty damn tired of being on your rescue squad. Maybe you should think about settling down. But who I am fooling? You won’t.”**

**_(No. But I don’t want to worry anyone.)_ **

**“Look, here’s what I think. You’d say it was stupid, but you can’t stop me now, so too bad. You’re a great man. No, I mean it. You can do things with your mind in a week that would take a dozen investigators a month. Working with you was amazing. But now I see you here, and what comes to mind isn’t you spewing out your deductions or solving puzzles. I think of the effort you made to make sure Wiggins’ girlfriend got cleared of that petty theft charge. Or how angry you’d get when a kid would get hurt. Or, god, that night I found you in the street, stoned out of your mind and crying over those girls in that trafficking ring---“**

**_(All right, point made.)_ **

**“See, Sherlock, you’re not just a great man, you’re a good one. And you need to quit messing around, wake up, get out of this bed, and go help people. All right? Because we need you.”**

**_(Greg…I’m trying.)_ **

XXXXX

The steel door creaks heavily on its hinges. The barest hint of light spills into the dark space of the warehouse. Two silhouettes slip through the narrow opening, and the door groans shut behind them.

“You know, Sherlock, this is a truly terrible idea.” John’s heavy whisper echoes in the cavernous space.

The bright beams of two flashlights flare, and the two men blink as their eyes adjust. “Yes, it is,” says Sherlock, at a normal volume. “But there’s not much point in trying to keep quiet, what with the gothic dungeon door on hand to announce us.”

“True.” John starts looking over some laboratory equipment lined up neatly on a table at the side of the room. “This—this is top of the line equipment, Sherlock. Wow.” He flips a couple of switches, and various screens start to glow. “Whoever this is, they spared no expense.” He brushes along the edge of the table and checks his fingers for dust. “It’s pretty clean in here. Looks like this equipment is still in use.”

“Hmmm, not all of it,” Sherlock says absently, as he flips through the contents of a file box. “I’d say full operations ceased sometime around six weeks ago, about the time you made your initial report to Mary. Some of the equipment has been moved into storage, looks like.” He moves to another lab station and considers the tools there with a practiced eye. “Other things have been shipped elsewhere, judging from the packing materials in the rubbish bin. But yes, some of this has been employed very recently, probably earlier today.”

“Today? Hmm. Can you tell which?”

“Oh, the gram scale, the lathe, certainly the vise.” Sherlock sounds almost casual. He gestures around the room, pointing at shelves and equipment as he speaks. “Some insulated wire has been measured and trimmed, and there’s evidence of welding, though I don’t see the torch itself anywhere. The fume hood has been operated recently –“ he gestures to a ventilation chamber, barely visible in the back of the room – “ and there are dirty beakers and flasks in there. Lazy. Drips all over the floor, too. The incinerator doors were opened and closed several times as well. This was a substantial project, and the end result required movement with a wheeled cart.”

“Remarkable, if a bit showy,” John says. Sherlock smiles faintly. “Well, what do you think it was, and where is it now, smart arse?”

“’Where’ is a highly relevant question. The tragic answer is beneath our noses.” Sherlock slips past John and shines his flashlight into the corner behind him. A dolly leans against the wall, a metal box resting on its platform. Sherlock approaches the container with caution.

“The tracks end here. The cart was wheeled into this corner with a flourish. There are fingerprints from where the lid was placed, and a full handprint from where the box was steadied as the dolly was parked. These types of boxes are thick and insulated. They’re generally used to transport fragile or volatile materials.”

John steps up next to him. “Do you think we could get an ID off the fingerprints?”

Sherlock eases down onto his knees and gingerly lifts the lid off the box. “I don’t think we’ll have time to worry about that, John.”

The reflection of small blinking lights dance on the inside of the lid. John looks down over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“That’s…that’s a bomb.”

Sherlock nods. “And that answers the ‘what.’ Quite correctly, I fear. All that intelligence experience is really paying off.”

“Shut up. Just…shut up. Do you see a timer?”

Sherlock hums thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s on the side. Do you think you could find the light switch?”

“Oh. Right.” John moves toward the door, and after a few seconds of rustling and muffled curses, the weak glow of fluorescent light fills the room.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock says distantly, as he begins to poke around the box.

“Christ, be careful,” John says.

Sherlock smirks without looking back. “The thought had occurred.” He continues his tentative investigation.

After a minute, John carefully squeezes his shoulder. “Listen. We need bomb disposal.”

Sherlock sits back onto his heels and slowly shakes his head. “There may not be time for that now.”

“No. There has to be a telephone around here somewhere, and if not, you do have a bloody fast car.”

“True, but there are two additional considerations. One, look.” Sherlock traces the beam of his flashlight up the wall, past the suspended light fixtures and to the high ceiling. “I’m fairly certain those are explosive charges up there. The box is the detonator, and this entire building is the bomb. If it goes off, it’s going to take out half of this island. We don’t have time to go running around.”

“Shit.” John runs his hand through his hair. “All right. And that’s just one of the problems?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Sherlock rises gracefully to his feet. “The other is of even more immediate concern. I was quite careful to assess our risk of discovery before we came in. There were no cars, no footprints, absolutely no signs of recent entry. However, judging from the sudden hint of French perfume in the air, I’m certain we’re no longer alone.”

He turns toward a door on the far side of the room and as if on cue, it creaks open. A petite blond figure wearing a red fleece pullover eases into the room and the light.

“Excellent deduction, Mr. Holmes,” says Mary Morstan, as she raises her gun.

XXXXX

**_...beepbeepbeep...beep…beep…beep…_ **

**“Sherlock?” ( _Cool hand on my forehead.)_**

**“What was that? Is he all right?”**

**_Molly. Mrs. Hudson._ **

**“I’m sure he’s fine, Mrs. Hudson. Just--dreaming a bit, I suppose.”**

**“Well, that’s a thought, isn’t it? I wonder what he’s dreaming about. He looks rather upset.”**

XXXXX

“You’re looking well, Mary,” Sherlock says, breaking the long silence.

She smiles, and it is strangely warm, almost genuine. “Why, thank you, Sherlock. You as well.” She tilts her head and purses her lips. “Better than the last time I saw you, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, when you left me to bleed out in the jungle?” Sherlock says, casually taking a step forward and away from John. “Yes, well, that will take it out of a man.”

John starts. “Wait. That was you? On the recon mission?” He looks to Sherlock, wide eyed. “ _Mary_ was the one who shot you?”

“Oh, you dear man. You kept our secret.” Mary blows him a kiss. “That’s so sweet.”

“I’m sorry, John. I would have told you, but I was hoping you’d figure it out on your own.” Sherlock does not look in his direction, but takes another step closer to Mary. “Moriarty was never our biggest problem. Mary was.”

“ _Mary_ shot you?” John repeats, shocked.

“Yes, but don’t worry. You were never in harm’s way,” he says over his shoulder. “Was he, Mary?”

Mary scoffs, but the sound is hollow. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

She narrows her eyes.

“You didn’t fake John’s death just to keep him from me, did you? No. You knew I wasn’t a risk. Not really. John and I had both taken Moriarty’s conditions to heart. No, you put him undercover to hide him _from_ Moriarty.”

She presses her lips together in anger. “I protect my team,” she forces out.

“Admirable, but this was far more than that. This was _personal_. If I had died, you could have been together openly. Sorry I botched the works by surviving.”

Mary tightens her grip on the gun. “Yes. Pity, that.”

John coughs. “Um, been together?”

Sherlock ignores the interruption, and takes another small step toward Mary. “With me alive, there was a still a threat. Moriarty was a madman after all, even you knew that. So you ‘killed’ John. Virtually, but effectively. Only you and your team knew John Watson was really alive.” Sherlock’s voice catches on the last word, but he swallows and continues. “How did Jim find out?”

She glowers at Sherlock, absolute loathing on her face. “It was a stupid mistake. One of my higher ups saw John’s report on my desk and mentioned it in a summary that went up the chain of command. It created some chatter, and drew attention to John’s work.” She snarls. “A report that referred to the efforts of ‘that doctor fellow’ made the rounds. Moriarty was always suspicious of me, and he had eyes everywhere. I shut the operation down and tried to take care of the loose ends, but it was too late.”

“Wait. Loose ends?” John asks, looking between the two of them.

“The photographer…” Sherlock murmurs. “What was his name, Bobby? He was a plant, I knew that. His presence didn’t make sense; why would anyone film that raid? But you needed someone to make sure John held back.” He nods slowly. “How does one reward good little soldiers these days, Mary?”

Mary smirks. “Shore duty in the British Virgin Islands, in this case. But Moriarty found him. Moran and that bloody yacht showed up in the islands, and Bobby was gone before I could get to him. I’m sure he talked.”

“Could you just slow down a minute?” John asks, flustered. “Bobby survived the explosion?”

“Oh, do keep up, John,” Mary snaps. “You like them stupid, Sherlock, don’t you?”

“As do you, apparently,” Sherlock says quietly.

Mary flushes. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to anger a woman with a gun in one hand, and—“ she raises her right hand to reveal a small metal device—“a detonator in the other.”

XXXXX

_**…beep….beep….beep….beep….** _

**_(Flare of bright light.)_ **

**“Normal pupillary light reflexes. Excellent.”**

**_Unknown. (Doctor?)_ **

**“The EEG was stable, which is a good sign. Deep pain reflexes…”**

**_(Pinch. Ow.)_ **

**“Decreased response, but definitely present, which is all we need. He’s coming along nicely.”**

**“Thank you, doctor. Soon, then?”**

**_Mycroft._ **

**“Well, one can never predict these things, but there’s certainly reason to hope.”**

**_(Clogs on the tile floor. Door opening and closing.)_ **

**“There. You see? He’s just taking his time. He does like his dramatic entrances.”**

**_(Soon.)_ **

XXXXX

“Shit.” John starts to step around Sherlock, but Sherlock holds him back with one hand.

“And we will all go down together,” Sherlock says with a sneer. “How predictable. Very touching, Commander.”

“Might as well,” Mary says, serious. “I should have just shredded that report the moment I saw it. They’ve started an investigation. Won’t be long now. My career _and_ my very lucrative sidelines are over. If I wait around, I’ll be arrested, and I’ll never see sunlight again. I won’t have it.” She takes a step toward them, her eyes fixed on John. “At least we’ll die together and he--” She points her chin at Sherlock. “—won’t have you.”

“Are you seriously making this about jealousy?” John asks, incredulous.

“She never got over you, John,” Sherlock says quietly. “You’re her obsession. You’re the one that got away.”

Mary raises an eyebrow. “Not too far away, you’ll notice.”

“But…I told her,” John says, bewildered. He turns to Mary. “I told you I wasn’t interested. And you said it was _fine_.”

She smiles at him, almost warmly. “I knew with time, you’d come back to me. I could be patient. I _was_ patient. If I kept you safe and gave you time, you’d realize I was the right one for you. We could have been good together, you know.” She sighs, then. “But time’s up. Sherlock is back, you know the whole story, and with Moriarty dead there’s no one else to blame. Sherlock is right--“ she raises the detonator, her thumb poised above the button. “We’ll all go down together.”

“ _Wrong_.” Sherlock pushes John hard toward the door. “John! Get out! _Run_!” he cries. Then, turning, he launches himself in Mary’s direction, one hand knocking the detonator away as he brings her to the ground in a graceless tackle. The two struggle for several long moments, grunts and curses filling the air. There’s the flash of a red sleeve, the crack of a gun firing, a moment’s pause and then…

**_Silence._ **

XXXXX

**_...beep….beep….beep….beep…._ **

**“…forensics back on the fire at the warehouse. They just need to confirm the details with the other, um, witness. Sherlock.”**

**_Lestrade._ **

**“Well, that was fast.”**

**_Molly._ **

**“Here’s what they told me. After Sherlock tackled her…”**

**_(Oh, that’s right.)_ **

**“…landed in a spill. There were explosives all over that warehouse, and she had been mixing plastique earlier that day…”**

**_(She. Mary.)_ **

**“…knocked the detonator away. They fought, and she hit him with the gun.”**

**“Oh. That’s how he got that cut, I guess.”**

**“Right. She was rolling in that, what do you call it, goo I guess, and the friction of her jacket heated it up, liquefied it, and then when the gun fired…”**

**_(John. MARY. JOHN.)_ **

**_...beep beep beep beep…beep…beep…beep beepbeep…_ **

**“Wow, look at that. Do you think he hears us? Sherlock…Sherlock, it’s fine. You’re safe. John is safe. Mary is dead.”**

**_(John is safe. Safe.)_ **

**_(Mary is DEAD.)_ **

**“You wrestled with her, knocked the gun out of her hand. John got to it and shot her. That was a hell of a shot, by the way. Caused a bit of an explosion, though. A mechanical event, the experts called it. Mostly energy, though there was a bit of a flare. You…absorbed most of the hit, though not directly. Just enough to keep the warehouse from going up. John pulled you out of there just as the cops showed up. Apparently Irene Adler called them. Not sure how she knew. She called us, too.”**

**_(Irene. Of course. But the bomb in the box…)_ **

**“Oh! And the bomb squad was there. There _was_ a real bomb. A big one, too, but it was in a metal box. Protected it from the blast, kept it from going off. Lucky thing.”**

**_(Not luck. She didn’t want to kill John if she didn’t have to.)_ **

**“Crazy thing, though. It was armed, but it had an off switch.”**

_( **Door opening.)**_

**“Oh, hello, you two. How’s the patient?”**

**_John. John. JOHN._ **

**“I think we’re getting close, John. He reacted when Greg mentioned the fight.”**

**“Did he now? Well, that’s excellent news.”**

**_(John’s breath. John’s scent. Faint press of lips on my forehead, breath on my cheek.)_ **

**“Not much longer, all right, Sherlock?”**

**_(John’s whisper, tender in my ear.)_ **

**“I think we’ve waited long enough.”**

**_(John…so do I.)_ **

XXXXX

Lying on his back.

A muffled groan.

The stretch of fingers, a slight lift of chin.

Sudden light as he blinks awake.

John smiles down at him. “Hello, love,” he says, softly.

**-Cue Credits-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone thought Magnum, PI was going to stop production at the end of the seventh season, and in the last episode they wrote Magnum in a coma, hovering between life and death (thus the name of the episode, "Limbo"). He had been injured in a warehouse shootout, and the final scene was supposed to show him walking off into heaven. However, shortly before the ep was to air, Selleck agreed to one more short season. They had to hurry to re-edit the story but couldn't fix it entirely; if you watch it you can tell. There's even a fairly obvious funeral scene, where Thomas is referred to in past tense. 
> 
> With eternal gratitude for the fierce beta skills and gentle friendship of 221bJen and EnduringChill. They stood by, first aid kits in hand, as many, many brave words and noble commas gave their lives in the service of this chapter. (Specifically, around 10,000 words were recycled into electrons when the previous iteration of this chapter flopped around on the deck and died.) This story has been greatly improved by their suggestions and input. Also, Mazarin221b, Mydwynter, and dear Kedgeree have provided much needed support behind the scenes. I don't think they could ever know how much I appreciate their many kindnesses. I am honored and fortunate to call all of these people friends. If anything sucks, that's just me being stubborn.
> 
> I'm fully aware of the painfully mixed metaphors in the previous paragraph, but they are making me laugh, so I'm leaving them.
> 
> And now, finally, with the end in sight, I lift a pineapple-bedecked pina colada toast to you all. Thank you, truly, for reading this. I am so very grateful.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few weeks after the hospital.

Mycroft is sitting at the desk in his office, Sherlock in the chair before him. Both men are tense, glaring at each other over teacups. 

“Candy-craving, crayon-grabbing denizen of schoolyards and sandboxes,” Mycroft growls. 

“Beady-eyed, falcon-beaked tattered felt puppet of the monarchy,” Sherlock spits out. 

Mycroft sniffs. “Stick-legged, mop-haired poster child for arrested development.”

Sherlock’s eyes flash. “Plastic-wrapped, tissue-garbed, candle-forged would-be aristocrat.”

Mycroft lifts his chin and narrows his eyes. “Petulant, mewling, pablum-soaked, cloth-diapered man-child.”

The brothers lock eyes for several seconds, and Sherlock’s lips begin to twitch. A snort of laughter escapes him, and both men dissolve into quiet chuckles. Sherlock tips his teacup in ironic salute. “All right, that was a good one.”

Mycroft nods once in acknowledgement. “I'm honored. I rather liked the falcon one.” He drains his teacup and lifts an eyebrow toward the drinks tray. “Might I interest you in something stronger?”

Sherlock nods and leaning over, tips the last dregs from his teacup into the potted tree next to the desk. “Why not? It is a special occasion, after all.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft intones, as he pours a splash of whiskey into each teacup. Sherlock mumbles a word of thanks, and a comfortable silence settles between them. 

“Next week, then,” Sherlock says finally, looking into his cup. 

Mycroft hums assent. “Sixteen hours to London. Sixteen long hours of Mrs. Hudson’s tedious chatter.”

“Hmmm. I hadn’t considered that. Sleeping pills?”

“For which of us?”

“Either. Both. And possibly the dog.”

“Ugh, the dog.” Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Not a bad idea, actually. I’ll have to look into it.” 

“I certainly would.”

Mycroft quirks a brief smile before clearing his throat and looking away with apparent disinterest. “It’s not too late for you to change your mind, you know,” he says, casually. “I’m certain the constabulary is as ineffective in London as it is here in the South Pacific.”

Sherlock leans back in his chair and lifts a sardonic eyebrow. “But where would I get fresh pineapple?”

“Ah. True,” Mycroft says with regret. “Some compromises are too great to bear. Alas. But it’s probably for the best. I know you hate what the British weather does to your hair.”

“Well. Speaking of the weather, I’ve something for you. A ‘thank god you’re finally going away’ present, as it were.” Sherlock walks quickly to the door and retrieves a long, slender package from the hallway. “I had this shipped to Molly’s office some time ago. I’ve been waiting for the right time to give it to you.” He presents the package to Mycroft with a flourish.

Mycroft’s eyebrows raise to their limit, but he takes the gift from Sherlock and holds it, uncertain.

“Go on, then,” Sherlock huffs. “It’s not a bomb, for god’s sake.”

Mycroft unwraps the package with deliberate care. When the final layer of brown paper is removed, he draws in a deep breath.

“It’s an umbrella,” he says, with wonder.

“Right, yes, but not just any umbrella, it’s an--”

“--original by Fox. Bespoke. Malacca handle, wood stick, 36 inches long--”

“You  _ are _ rather tall.”

“--black polyester, black tips, black rosettes, black made band--”

“Yes, one must be subtle, but…”

“Oh, my. Silver engraved collar.”

“...not at the expense of style.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s eyes shine. “It’s almost exactly like Father’s.”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “It rains quite a lot in London, as you know. I thought it would be practical. That’s all.”

“I see.” Mycroft swallows, and then makes a show of examining the handle. “It would appear they are sourcing their woods from Borneo.”

Sherlock nods, a small smile threatening to surface. “I did notice.”

Mycroft lays the umbrella down carefully on his desk and leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin.“How long ago did you order this?”

“A few months. Just before all the--troubles.”

“Ah.” Mycroft nods. “Right after I got the first call from the Minister, then. I was more transparent than I thought.”

“No, no, you weren’t. Not really. I just...it’s what I do. I wasn’t certain you’d head back to London, but it seemed the most likely assignment for a man with your skill set.” Sherlock reclaims his glass. “And if I’m being truthful, in a world with people like Moriarty and Morstan in it, I’m rather relieved to see you going back to work.”

Mycroft tilts his head in acknowledgment of the compliment. “You flatter me.”

“No, I don’t, and we both know it. I will say, though--” Sherlock looks to the ceiling, affecting nonchalance. “--I suppose I am rather glad you were still here when everything came down.”

“Yes. Well.” Mycroft clears his throat. “Someone has to look after you.”

Sherlock smiles then, softly. “I’ll be fine, Mycroft. But for what it’s worth...thank you.” He shakes head briskly. “Enough of this. Now. I am a very busy man, and you have packing to do.”

“Oh, god, packing. I abhor it. Perhaps I will just dwell in a tent in the Regent’s Park and live the life of a mendicant.”

“Mmmm, excellent. You’ll leave the Egyptian cotton sheets then? Lovely.” Sherlock beams a bright grin and jumps to his feet. He starts to walk through the door, but pauses and looks back over his shoulder. “Just...be sure she takes her pills,” Sherlock says quietly. 

Mycroft blinks with surprise. “Of course I will.”

“Thank you. The mansion will be in good hands, Mycroft.” Sherlock smiles, then, his eyes crinkling. “Oh, and Mycroft, reinstatement isn’t the only secret you haven’t been able to keep. Next time you look in the mirror, give my regards to Robin Masters.” He winks and is gone.

XXXXX

Molly leans over her coffee cup, excited. “I think I’m going to ask Greg to move in with me, Sherlock. What do you think?”

“I think it’s a great idea, Molly,” Sherlock says, with a genuine smile. “He’s a lucky man.”

XXXXX

The night is dark and quiet, save for the muffled roar of the ocean. Sherlock and Irene walk arm in arm along the boardwalk in companionable silence. 

“Lovely dinner,” Irene says. “I must say, I was a little worried about the neighborhood at first, but it really was very good. You were right about the door handle.”

“Of course I was,” Sherlock says offhandedly.

“You’re overdressed, though,” she continues, nodding at his tailored suit. “I rather thought we’d be mugged before we got back to the car.”

“I drive a red Ferrari, Irene. I could hop out of it in the full regalia of King George, and it wouldn’t make a difference in who notices.”

“True,” she says thoughtfully. “You are rather unsubtle in your appearance, what with the hair and all.”

Sherlock snorts. “How much did your shoes cost, Saint Anthony?”

She laughs. “All right. I call detente.”

They continue along, talking and laughing quietly, until they reach the parking lot at the end of the boardwalk. Irene clicks a remote and the lights of a black Jaguar sedan come to life. 

“Hmm. Nice.” Sherlock opens the car door for her. “I do have to say, though, I rather admired the Mercedes. It was quite elegant.”

Irene playfully tilts her head. “But this is a jungle cat, Sherlock. It has to be tamed. It growls when pushed, and it purrs when content. It’s more ‘me.’” She starts to slip into the car, but then stops suddenly to look up into his face. She considers him closely, then sighs and reaches out over the door to trace a long finger down the lapel of Sherlock’s black jacket. 

“I have to ask,” she murmurs. “Do you think you will ever be able to trust me again?” 

Sherlock regards her warmly for a moment before leaning forward to kiss her cheek. “No,” he whispers in her ear. “But I will forgive you, some day.”  He straightens and tips his head toward the car, a fond smile on his lips. “Drive carefully, Irene. Good night.”

Irene blinks away her tears, nods once, and slides into the car.

XXXXX

Greg leans over his pint glass, anxious. “I think--I think I’m going to ask Molly to move in with me, Sherlock. Yeah. Big step, but--yeah. What do you think?”

“I think it’s a great idea. So get on with it already,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. “You’re an idiot for waiting.”

XXXXX

Sherlock hands Mrs. Hudson a tissue and pats her awkwardly on the shoulder.

“It’s not that I’m not glad to be going home,” she sniffs. “I’ll be glad to see my sister and the flat is really quite lovely, you should see it, but oh, Sherlock--I wish you were coming, too.”

He smiles gently and nods.

“I mean, I know it’s beautiful here,” Mrs. Hudson continues. “And you have the mansion to look after, and the grounds, and the car, of course, but oh, Sherlock--” The tears start again in earnest. “I am going to miss you so.”

He blushes and looks down, obviously touched. 

“And Victor!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims. “What will he do without you for his daily walks? It’s the highlight of his day, I know it. He’s going to be so sad when it’s tea time and you’re not there. Dogs are very intelligent, you know, he will notice, and I’ll have to explain it every day and he’ll look at me with those sad eyes…”

More tears. He hands her another tissue.

“Maribel says she’s staying on, and that’s a comfort, and I know you’ve got your friends. It’s just, you’ve been through so much lately. I know I don’t know the whole of it, but still, I’d feel better if you were around family.”

Sherlock smiles again, a bit tightly this time.

“Oh, I’m not really family, but you know what I mean.”

He nods again, still smiling, as he reaches over to pat her hand. More tears.

“Sherlock, just promise me you’ll take care of yourself, and oh, promise me that you’ll come to visit. It’s not very far, you know, not really. Not anymore. I’m sure Mycroft will have room. Or you can stay with me. The upper flat is furnished, I’ll just keep it ready for you. There are two bedrooms, you know. You’ll be careful, and you’ll come visit. Promise me, now.”

Sherlock reaches for her and draws her into a warm hug. “I promise, Mrs. Hudson,” he says quietly, as he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

XXXXX

The day is clear and bright, and the road stretches out empty ahead. Sherlock slams his foot down on the accelerator, and the Ferrari surges forward. The passenger side window lowers. A long-eared, floppy-tongued brown and white head emerges through the opening, panting with joy.

XXXXX

Sherlock takes a sip from his cup of coffee and looks to the window, where the darkened sky is now touched with the promise of sunrise. He stretches and sighs.

He trudges to the bedroom. After a minute, he reemerges, dressed now in a t-shirt and athletic shorts. By the front door, he crouches to pull on and tie a pair of running shoes.

Through the faint pewter of early dawn, he walks down the circular driveway, past the guest house, and across the lawn to the gate at the edge of the property.

He secures the catch behind him and turns to consider the ocean. It shimmers even at this early hour, subtle greens and greys and vibrant blues stretching to the pink and silver horizon. 

Sherlock starts running down the faintly gold-streaked beach.

He sets a fast pace quickly, smiling to hear the slaps of his shoes first against wet sand, and then on the boardwalk along the public part of the beach.The shorebirds are awakening, and their cries and complaints mix with the murmurs of his breath in a lively counterpart to the stark staccato of his steps.

He runs an easy three miles down the beach before doubling back.

On the way home, about a mile from the estate, he rounds a corner and approaches the large boulder where Sebastian Moran once lay in wait. He narrows his eyes and slows his steps, but before he is able to stop, a man hurtles from the far side of the rock and tackles him to the sand, right at the edge of the water.

“You...bloody...wanker…” says John Watson, quickly straddling him and struggling to capture his wildly flailing arms. “You were supposed...to wake me up. We were... going to...go running together. Remember?”

Sherlock is giggling now, attempting both to catch his breath and escape the pinning of his wrists. “But you looked so--ow, stop it--so peaceful there, all cuddled up--hey, watch it, EXCUSE me--I couldn’t bear to wake you. And besides…” he says, as he finally surrenders, “...after last night, I figured you could use the rest.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

John smiles down at him. “Well, no argument there. It  _ was _ an impressive feat of athletic prowess, and I’m not as young as I used to be. But still,” he says, licking his lips and leaning down, “You can't be seen running around with some pudgy bloke.” Their lips meet and linger.

Sherlock hums into the kiss before pulling back. “But I like a bit of meat on my men,” he says, grinning widely.

“Oh, no problem there,” John says, and punctuates the sentiment with a firm thrust of his hips.

Sherlock’s eyes widen. “Commander Watson. This is a beach. We are outdoors. We are _officers._ Behave yourself.” 

In response, still holding Sherlock’s arms above his head, John stretches his legs out and presses his body against Sherlock’s from chest to knees. “This is a private beach, we are _retired_ officers, and it’s ungodly early. We might shock a couple of pelicans, but otherwise, the actions of two consenting adults should not garner much unwanted attention. That is--” he says, his smile turning dirty as he starts to roll his hips, “--assuming you do consent?” 

Sherlock answers with a growl. He jerks his hands free and uses the sudden momentum to flip them over. “Absolutely,” he says, going in for a passionate, nearly rough kiss. 

John responds in kind, and two sets of hips begin to thrust together with increasing urgency. Careful caressing turns to eager clutches. Teasing lips become panting mouths, moaning, licking. Sherlock pushes himself up to his knees and pausing only for a moment to listen to John’s soft pleas (“oh god, Sherlock, please, love, please”), he pulls John’s shorts down just enough to free his hard cock. He swipes his thumb across the tip, collecting a drop of precome that he then brings to his lips. John is staring, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and their eyes meet as Sherlock licks the flavor from his thumb. “Oh, Christ,” John says softly, and his cock twitches at the sight.

John’s head drops back against the soft, wet sand as Sherlock swallows him down and immediately begins to work him, long slides of his tongue followed by long strokes of his entire mouth in a steady rhythm. John is quickly reduced to gasps and groans. Sherlock continues his relentless pace, sucking, licking, and pulling in turn. John digs his fingers into the sand at first, but is soon unable to resist sliding his hands into Sherlock’s soft hair as his hips start to twitch forward in small, shallow thrusts out of his control.

Sherlock smiles around John’s cock at the movement, moaning his approval, and the vibration is enough to tip John over the edge. He comes, hard, straight down Sherlock’s throat with a near shout. Sherlock hums his pleasure and takes it all, holding John gently in his mouth as he comes down. John finally opens his eyes, and looks at Sherlock in wonder. “My god,” he says in a near whisper. He grabs Sherlock’s t-shirt in one fist and pulls him up, kissing him deeply. “And here I thought you’d be tired from your run.”

“Oh, I am,” Sherlock says, smiling with wicked glee. “Wait until I’m rested up.”

“Christ. You’re insatiable,” John says. “I love that about you.” He starts to reach for Sherlock’s waistband. “Let me…” But Sherlock stays his hand. 

“I very much desire your kind attentions, but to be blunt, all this sand is beginning to chafe. Might we?” he says, tipping his head in the direction of the mansion.

“But, Sherlock,” John says, his hand dipping down to rub along the nylon covering his backside. “Sand is supposed to be an excellent exfoliant.”

“Well, my arse is quite smooth enough, thank you. Now.” Sherlock rises gracefully to his feet and stretches out a hand. “Pull yourself together, man. The pelicans can’t take much more excitement.”

John quickly adjusts his shorts and uses Sherlock’s hand to pull himself up. “Well, for the sake of the shorebirds.” He turns to Sherlock, eyes twinkling. “Care to race back? Winner gets a blowjob in the shower.”

Sherlock grins down at him. “Considering the events of the very recent past, that hardly seems a fair bet.”

John grins back. “Stop complaining and start running, you tosser. I was planning to let you win.”

XXXXX

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, Mycroft fumbles in his leather carry on bag. After a moment of rummaging, he looks briefly puzzled, but then he laughs once, a bright bark, as he pulls out a rubber chicken.

XXXXX

It’s late afternoon at the Masters Estate.  Twilight is beginning to shimmer in the air, and the melodies of songbirds fill the air as they begin to settle in for the warm evening. Two figures emerge from the early shadows, carrying a large box between them. They carefully place the box on the front porch of the mansion and take a moment to catch their breath. Then one rings the doorbell, and both figures dart quickly away and around the corner of the house.

After a minute, John opens the door. “Sherlock? Were you expecting a delivery?” he calls back into the house as he steps on to the porch. He peels an envelope off the top of the box and peers at the address.

Sherlock appears in the doorway. “No. I ordered some lab equipment, but it shouldn’t be here until next Tuesday at the earliest. What is it?”

“Not sure. It didn’t come through a formal delivery service, I don’t think. This is addressed to you.” He hands Sherlock the envelope and drops into a crouch, examining the box closely.

Sherlock cautiously opens the envelope and shakes out the single page. _"'Sherlock,’”_ he reads. _“‘I trust you have settled into the main house and are comfortable. I write this to address an important concern. With me off to serve the Commonwealth, and with your attention so clearly focused elsewhere - greetings, Dr. Watson - it is obvious that mansion security will require additional technologies to remain sufficient to the cause.'_ Oh, that arrogant bastard.” 

“Sherlock--” John says carefully. “There is something scratching on the inside of this box.”

Sherlock looks down at him, lifting a skeptical eyebrow. “Scratching?” He leans in to listen, and blinks in surprise at the sound of faint scraping, followed by a single quiet whine. He and John exchange a look, and as John starts to pull open the box, he returns quickly to the letter in his hand.

_ "'I think you will find the enclosed an adequate starting point. You will find additional supplies in the closet of what was recently Mrs. Hudson’s room. Please expect a call from training personnel in the next day or so.' _ Supplies? Training personnel? Oh god, he sent us…”

“Puppies.” John grins widely and lifts a small wiggly black and brown dog from the inside of the box. “He sent us two Doberman Pincher puppies.”

Sherlock’s mouth falls open in shock, but after a moment, he shakes himself and goes back to the letter. _ "'You’ll despise me for the next several nights, but I firmly believe you and Dr. Watson are up to this greatest of challenges. Best of luck, brother mine.’ _ And there’s a postscript: ‘ _ In accordance with our previous agreement, I have taken the liberty of assigning them names. I believe you will find them satisfactory.'" _ He turns the paper over. “Names?” 

John is sitting on the porch now, giggling as he attempts to withstand the affectionate onslaught of two wriggling, licking puppies. Sherlock crouches down beside him.  “Oh, here, look, Sherlock. They have tags. This one is...Zeus. And this one is Apollo. Is he--is he kidding?”

“Oh, no, not at all. Zeus and Apollo. Of course.” He reaches slowly out to trace a finger down one puppy’s nose, as the other starts to worry at his shoelace. “Good lads,” he whispers.

  
-Cue Credits-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, as they say, is that.
> 
> I'm seizing this one last chance to thank 221bjen and EnduringChill for the beta work and moral support. I hope you two know how very, very grateful I am.
> 
> Many thanks to Mazarin221b, who several months ago told me I could do this. As I've said before, she is the godmother of this fic, and I hope I haven't let her down. She gets a gigantic gold star, by the way, for calling out the vague Billy Joel reference in the previous chapter.
> 
> Kisses to Kedgeree and to Mydwynter, who now know how incredibly whiny I am.
> 
> And finally, to anyone who has stayed with this thing. I am so thankful for you, for your comments and kudos and even just hits. I'm really not kidding when I talk about 25 years of writers' block. I was thrilled to find that I could even put words in a row in the right direction again, so having any kind of appreciative audience was quite beyond my imagination. I hope something really nice happens to each one of you very soon.


End file.
